


Even if you know the way, ask one more time

by streimel



Series: Gamble the World On You (Blackjack) [3]
Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, I should tag tropes more often, M/M, determined defeatist, the only one I trust, there are no coincidences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streimel/pseuds/streimel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everyone's destiny is delivered in a standard sized envelope, Howon has to create his own fate when his letter never comes</p><p>[Fantasy AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. everyone has a back story

**Author's Note:**

> ~*~WaRNing~*~
> 
> I have never written a multi-chaptered fic before, this is terrifying, I deeply and humbly apologize if this thing is crap and turns into a bloody mess
> 
> rly
> 
> ahhhh here goes nothing I guess
> 
> (all ages go by Korean age approximation)

_Changwon, 2002_

 

Lee Howon, like almost every twelve-year-old in the Republic of Korea, wakes up the morning of the talk with butterflies in his stomach. He knows it's a bit silly, that the government worker is probably just going to tell them the same things they've heard a million times from their parents and older siblings and in old folk legends, but somehow, today is different. Today, no one is going to tease them, call them impatient or condescendingly say "you'll understand when you're older." No, today is they day when they can ask anything they want, when society has deemed them mature enough to understand the potential of their futures, to start preparing themselves for destiny. It's a big day for a kid, a mini coming-of-age ceremony of sorts, and Howon puts on his nicest school uniform, not noticing his mom's bemused grin as he heads off for school.

The worker has to go from room to room, one at a time, and the whole class, Howon included, barely pays attention through the morning hanja and math lessons, checking and rechecking the clock every minute, waiting for the hands to read 11:45. Howon can feel the leg of his desk-mate shaking under the table, hitting his chair every so often, and he finds it kind of a relief, that he isn't the only one so sillily worked up about something they all tell themselves they know everything about anyways.

The government official is late (a reality a class of 30 twelve-year-olds has limited understanding of), and Howon can't explain to himself why he's so on edge, seven agonizing minutes seeming to be an eternity until a kind-looking ahjumma knocks on their door at 11:52. Lunch is supposed to start promptly at 12:45, and he can't help but feel slighted, the hour that was supposed to be dedicated to any and all queries they had now a skimpy 53 minutes. The official introduces herself, some name he won't ever remember, despite the fact that he'll be able to recall this moment like it just happened for the rest of his life, and she starts her speech, words precise in their government-approved diction.

"Now children, we all know why I'm here today; you surely have heard the stories of how your parents met, and I'm sure some of you have maybe seen some of the dramas on TVs with their various stories as well. Of course, every situation will be different, dependent on the people, but let's discuss the basic facts, hm? You should all start receiving the letters within a few years; 15 is a bit early, but not unheard of, and generally speaking, studies have found most receive their letter by late 17, with everyone receiving a letter by 19..."

If it weren't such an important part of his life, of everyone's life, Howon would probably think the whole thing was pretty stupid. A single slip of paper, in an ordinary envelope, with just a name; this is what he can expect, what he can't avoid. He could go anywhere, out in a desert or probably under the sea or in space, and one day his letter would come, and he knows he would open it, just to desperately spend the rest of his life trying to find the person who's name is written on it.

Naturally, like any curious twelve-year-old, he had asked his mom, and she didn't know either. No one knew where the letters came from, when they started (though it's been a long time, pretty much before anyone can remember) or even why. Some said it was God above; some said it was all a hoax. What his mom did know, the same facts now reiterated by the nice government lady, is that everyone gets a letter, all around the world, and that that letter holds the name of your supposed soulmate. True as the sun rises, inescapable as death and paying taxes, destiny comes calling in a 220 by 110 mm letter, and no one seems to be able to resist the pull, the innate need to find that person.

The official goes on, repeating the same stuff even the babies in kindergarten probably know, and finally, finally, she allows them the chance the ask questions, an ephemeral 17 minutes left before lunch, and nearly everyone hands shoot up all at once, anxious to have their curiosity settled.

She filters through all of them, answering questions on match registration at the Ministry of Gender Equality and Family (within two weeks of receiving a letter, to "better assist match facilitation"), match finding assistance, and various rumors about what the letters look and feel like (yes, it is true that they vary from person to person).

Howon's already knows this (his older brother's friends are already receiving their letters, so he's started to hear some of it at home, not even including his parent's story), and when the official finally looks to him, motioning for him to go ahead with his question, he goes straight to the issue his parents try to avoid talking about in front of him.

"What do we do if we're a soulless? Or a mismatch? What do those even mean?"

He can feel the energy shift in the room, everyone shocked at his boldness but curious at the response the official will give. Until now, he knows they've all been brushed off by adults when they ask, desperately trying to sneak manhwa and movies that talk about them, or relying on older siblings and friends to divulge the secrets they know. The adults silence is pretty stupid to him, because it's not like they haven't heard of them; they all know well enough to know it's bad, and that, for whatever reason, it's not polite to talk about them. But now society has decided they are all old enough to handle it, and he's wants to know today what they've been trying to keep from him.

* * *

The only thing he does know is what Hojae, his older brother, had accidentally spilled one day a few months ago. Hojae had come home that day earlier than expected, barely managing to get out a "hello" to the rest of the family before heading straight to the room they shared. Usually, he would have just ignored it, chocking it up to Hojae being angst-y like always, but something about Hojae's demeanor, the blank face he had seen, so unlike Hojae's usual self, had scared him. And even though he knew he might get the crap beat out of him for meddling, he had slid off the couch, ditching his younger brother Hojun and the cartoons they had been watching, and followed Hojae into their room.

Hojae hadn't even looked up when he came in, face pressed into a pillow to block out everything, and he half expected Hojae to turn on him when he had sat on his bed, pushing his shoulder to get him to turn over.

"Hyung...are you okay?"

Hojae lifted his head, looking at him as if he didn't even see him, and everything about Hojae, the distant eyes, the drawn face, everything had said that Hojae definitely wasn't okay.

"I th-think I'll go get umma," he had stuttered, sliding quickly off the bed, but Hojae grabbed his shirt, bringing him back down before he could get away, pulling him back down to sit beside him.

"No! I don't want to talk to her about this!"

And so of course he had asked. Asked Hojae what he didn't want to tell their mom, part curiosity moving him to speak, part desire to be there for Hojae, to listen and help if he can, making him hold his older brother's hand tightly like they hadn't done in years.

And he did. Hojae started talking, so fast Howon had to concentrate hard to keep up, and he knew better to interrupt, to ask questions when he didn't understand, because this was about Hojae, not him.

"Do you remember Kang Soojin? You know, her younger brother Taewoon was in your tae kwon do class...well, she got her letter today. At school. Which is weird enough in itself, I mean, I know it can happen, but it's so...whatever. It was in her locker, I guess, and when she got to school and saw it, she immediately opened it. Which, like, I can't blame her, I'd probably rip mine open right there too. But she was at her locker, and we were all in the hall, and then she just started...screaming. Like...like I've never heard that kind of scream before. All the hair on my arms stood straight up and teachers came running out. And when I looked over...it was just there. It really was black. The paper was black, with white letters, just like everyone said it looked like. I mean, I thought it was just an urban legend, that letters would come on black paper. But her letter did. Whoever's name is on that paper, they...died. Or will die, I guess, before she meets them. She's a soulless. She'll never even meet the person she was supposed to love."

Howon kept waiting, hoping desperately his brother's face would transform in an instant, would turn up into a smile and Hojae would grab him into a headlock and say "got ya, you idiot!" and he would be mad and go off and sulk. Or maybe not even that, because he would be relieved. Letters are supposed to be the happiest thing in the world, the thing that illuminates the path to the person you are meant to be with over everyone else in the world, the person that the cosmos had decided was the other half of your very being. How can a letter turn out to be the most devastating thing that's ever happened to you?

"But she can love someone else, right? There has to be someone else out there for her," he had whispered, silently beseeching Hojae to take it back, to make it right and fix it and take away all the terrible thoughts that had begun to run through his mind. What if he gets a black letter? What if Hojun gets a black letter? Or any of his friends, or the pretty high schooler girl that helps out in his tae kwon do class? He barely remembered Kang Soojin, vague memories of the time he went to Taewoon's house and she made them ramyeon, but she seemed like a nice person, and how can something like that happen to a nice person?

"That's not how letters work, Howon. You know that. I mean, I guess if she finds another soulless, or a mismatch, then maybe. But it won't be the same as if the person in her letter had not died young."

Soulless. Mismatch. So many words he's heard, but can't understand, and when he pushed Hojae to explain them, Hojae snapped out of his reverie, suddenly remembering exactly who he was talking to, and he had cursed, saying words that their mom would kill him for using, especially in front of Howon.

"Look, forget I said anything. I didn't mean to scare you, okay? It's okay. You'll understand when you're older-"

"I'm not a baby, Hojae! The official is going to come give us the talk in a few months anyways, I'm basically almost there, just tell me!"

But Hojae was already pushing him out, asking to be left alone and locking the door behind him, ignorning Howon's pleas. No matter how he begged and pleaded and whined, Hojae never ended up explaining anything more, and the last thing he learned about Soojin is a conversation he overheard between Hojae and their mom, that she had dropped out of school and that no one had any idea where she had gone to.

The lack of information doesn't prevent him for returning to the conversation again and again. If anything, it seeps into his mind, keeping him up at night, wondering about the people out there who don't get a happy ending he always assumed everyone else got, just like in the cartoon movies Hojun watches. Everyone he knows has two parents, two parents with matching letters just like his own, and they all love each other and have lovely families and everyone is happy, has to be happy, right? He doesn't even think he's met one of those people, but if what Hojae says is true (and he does believe him), than certainly they must exist.

It's something he just can't comprehend.

* * *

The official doesn't seem perturbed by his question, but her face pulls tight, like she's thinking carefully on what would be acceptable to say. She didn't mention either of the cases in her original lecture, and that makes him a bit mad, that they wouldn't think to prepare them for any situation, just gloss over the bare minimum and say their work was done.

"Well, hm, sometimes there are cases where...letters contain names of people that...a recipient may never get to know, as other matches do-"

There are frantic whispers across the room, classmates turning to one another in shocked response, and their teacher has to step in and quiet them down before the official can continue, thirty pairs of panicked eyes turned on her once again.

"Now now children, do not worry! These instances are very, very rare, I want to get that across before I continue. First, I should say that the term 'soulless' is a particularly disparaging term, and one should be careful on how they speak of people in such situations. Secondly, yes, there are instances when a person might receive the name of someone who...is predeceased. It is a very difficult situation, but the department if fully prepared to unite a person with the loved ones of their match in the  _highly unlikely_  chance such a situation should happen-"

"What about mismatches?"

He knows it's rude to be so pushy, to speak out of line to an adult in such a way, but he almost can't help himself. He already knows what she's saying about soulless people, or whatever he's supposed to call them, but he's really been wondering about this mismatch thing ever since Hojae let it slip in that conversation they had, and he's dying to learn exactly what it means. The official's eyes narrows, and he knows from the look his teacher is giving him he's really going to get it later, but it's already 12:40, and it's now or never.

"In some cases, a person might receive a letter that has the name of someone who has been...matched with another person. Like I said, it is very rare, and this is why we urge you all to not publicly announce your matches until you are absolutely sure that you are ready to reveal such information, or to go through the agency so all match announcements can be made in the best circumstances through our match facilitators."

He has nothing to say, and neither does the rest of his class. The official asks if there are any last questions, packing up and speaking a few words to the teacher while they all sit there in utter silence, trying to comprehend the idea that sometimes people don't even get matched with they person they love, and utterly failing. The bell rings for lunch, urging them to shift into gear and go get their lunch from the cafeteria, but it takes a stern warning from the teacher to push them into movement. Howon gets held back, reprimanded for speaking out of turn and disrespecting an elder, but he barely hears what his teacher even says to him, words flitting through one ear and out the other.

He doesn't even remember what he does for the rest of the day in school, staring at the chalkboard without absorbing a single thing he's being taught, and he barely even notices he somehow managed to get himself all the way home after school until his mom gives him his usual hug when he walks in the door. He's so distracted, trying again and again to make some sense of what he just learned, that he turns down his usual afternoon snack and his mom sits him down immediately, knowing something is up.

"Tell me how the talk went. I know you learned a lot today, my big boy," she croons, trying to lighten the mood, but he ducks out from under her hand, not wanting to be cajoled.

"How- why is it fair...it's not fair. It's not fair, umma."

"What's not fair, sweetie?"

"That some people don't get to love the people they are supposed to. I can understand if someone dies I guess but how can someone love someone who loves someone else? How can whoever or whatever decides this do that to someone? I don't understand."

His mom sighs deeply, bringing him in for a hug, and he finally lets her comfort him, not at all feeling like the big kid he was supposed to turn into today. He almost wants to go back, to be like Hojun and not even care about some stupid letter and what color paper it holds and if the name he finds inside is his everything or nothing at all.

"I don't understand it either, Howon. It's just the way life is, I suppose. People get sick, bad things happen, and some people don't get to love like they should. That's why you have to cherish what you have, while you have it, and learn from the tough times when they come. Besides, if everything were all good all the time, you wouldn't be able to differentiate one moment from the next. Bad things happening let's us know what to avoid, what to do better and how we can become stronger. The dark in the world makes the light stand out that much stronger."

His mom's words make him feel a little bit better, but the whole idea still leaves a little stone of sadness in his heart that he can't get rid of. Not being able to love someone doesn't just sad like a bad moment, it sounds like a bad life. Even though he feels a bit selfish, he can't help but pray, to whatever is out there, to please, please spare him the fate of being a mismatch, or even a soulless, because it's the very worst thing he can imagine.

* * *

_Cheongwan, 2009_

 

He wouldn't count himself as the type of person to fly off the handle at a moment's notice, and he would even say he's in complete control of all of his emotions, not matter what happens, but hearing the phrase "be careful what you wish for" makes him want to punch a hole in the closest wall. There's almost nothing that makes him angrier.

Almost.

But then again, he also tells himself he's not angry at all about his life situation. No, he's remained calm and collected through this whole thing, relatively speaking, and he kind of feels he deserves a god damn medal for not going crazy and doing something really rash.

At first, he didn't even notice it happening. He got older, birthdays passed, people grew up. Hojae got his letter when he was nearly 17, a rose-colored sheet with flowery green letters that he and Hojun had teased him endlessly about. And then it was he and his classmates turn, a sprinkling of them receiving theirs early, around 15, and then progressively more as time went on. He didn't worry, so consumed with school and trying to convince his parents he could make it work as a dancer, be an instructor and make money, if only they could support him, they'd see it too. Any time that he wasn't in school or stuck in argument with his dad, umma between them like a worn-out referee, he was with his dance group, watching videos and learning moves and free-styling in dance battles with other crews from the surrounding towns.

Truthfully, the idea grew in his mind, a faint buzzing that got louder and louder as he approached graduation, but he pushed it aside for the most part, so only to keep himself sane. Because if he stopped, for just a moment, and thought about it, thought about his mom's worried frown when she checked the mailbox everyday, thought about the jokes, and then teasing, and then concerned questions from his classmates, thought about the various branches of his extended family calling and asking where his letter was...yeah, then he started to panic, chest tightening until he couldn't breath. The only thing that kept him going was the single fact that everyone received a letter. Everyone.

He didn't know what to expect. On his 19th birthday, he had woken up, nearly running to the mailbox, only to find the usual birthday cards and junk mail inside. He had checked under his pillow, in his laundry hamper, even trekked all the way back to school, closed down for break before the new school year, and slipped in, looking in his old desk and locker. He looked everywhere he had heard people had found theirs, in his favorite book on his bookshelf, in the box of the cereal he liked best, in the family car's glove compartment, but nothing. Lee Howon had reached the age of 19, the invisible cut-off by which everyone was supposed to have received their letters, and yet here he was, empty-handed, and completely clueless as to what he's supposed to do next.

The department finally calls him three weeks after his birthday, commanding he come in for questioning over 'delinquency in the reporting of his match status', and he and his mom take the trip down to the local office, hoping  _they_  can answer his questions instead.

He can tell the man behind the desk doesn't believe him at first, that this is some elaborate hoax, and he and his mom go back and forth with the worker for a good twenty minutes, trying to explain that, no, he is definitely not lying, when the worker finally has enough, and asks him a question he doesn't even know how to answer.

"What do you mean, what does a letter feel like? Is this a joke? Yes, I've touched probably a few hundred letters, and they all feel the same. It's paper. Do you mean like, the texture of the paper?"

He looks to his mom, trying to see if he's imagining things or if this guy is really just being an inane asshole now, but her eyes are closed, a single tear slipping down her cheek, and when he turns back to the desk worker, the guy's face has completely blanched. Whatever the question was, he apparently answered it very wrongly, and this whole situation is getting more and more twisted by the minute.

"You really- he really hasn't...you don't know."

He doesn't know what in the hell is going on, what he's supposed to say, because nothing is making sense at all at the moment, but his mom answers for him anyways.

"He has no idea."

"What don't I have any idea about? Umma- what are you talking about?"

Neither of them answer him, and the government guy gets up slowly, looking around as if he's thinking about what to do, before muttering "I'll be right back" and heading out of the room, closing the door behind him. The minutes creep by slowly, agonizingly, and his mom doesn't say anything, head held in hands silently beside him, and he doesn't know how he fucked up, but he apparently did, big time, and an icy feeling of dread spreads through his veins.

The guy comes back after a while, an even more official looking man in tow, and Howon learns this is the director of the local office, pulled from an important meeting to figure this situation out. The man looks apprehensive, eyes shifting between Howon and his mother, and he finally sits down, typing away at the computer and throwing questions his way.

"Name? Location of birth? Birthdate? Any name changes?"

They cycle through the list of basic profile questions, entering in all his information as if he really were registering like he should have already done, and the man sits back, mouth pulled into a thin line.

"Well, he isn't matched to anyone in the database-"

His mom moans, a desolate sound that fills the little room, and his stomach feels like a roller coaster dropping at 100 feet a second, the cold dread swirling in his veins freezing to ice in half a second. He's slipped through the cracks, forgotten by fate, and any hope he had tried to cling on to is rushing out of his hands so fast he can't even try to grab on.

"Now wait, that doesn't mean that he won't be matched with someone. It just means that if he has a potential match, that person hasn't received their letter yet."

The way the man says potential, it's almost like he doesn't believe it will really happen either. Which at this point, he figures, would probably be better, because would what that person be, a mismatch? Even if his name is in someone's letter out there, they'll never be true soul mates. This new idea makes him feel even worse.

"But what if...," he thinks out loud, trying out every situation, trying to find some solution. "What if someone, later, gets my name in their letter? The department could just tell me, and maybe that's just the person I was meant to be with and my letter got blown away in the wind or someone threw it away, but we could still be happy, right?"

The man looks at him with hooded eyes, look forlorn as he begins to say what Howon knew he would.

"I can't tell you, no one can. You know this. It's illegal to reveal someone's match information, and as much as I would love to help your situation if possible, if the very department meant to protect the integrity and secrecy of someone's match was revealed to have divulged confidential information...I can't even comprehend the backlash. I'm sorry."

"But don't you think this is a special case?" his mom pleads, reaching out for the man's hand. "This isn't just some lovesick 18-year-old impatiently pestering a local office worker to see if their match has gotten a letter yet. This case is completely different!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I can't change the law for one person, and it wouldn't be fair to the potential recipient of your son's name either. Since, in that case, they are already pre-destined to meet, I think it's fair that your son will just have to wait for that moment like everyone else does."

And with that, the man makes his excuses, leaving them alone in the room again.

They spend all day in the office, new people coming in, directors from the regional office in Busan, conference calls to the headquarters in Seoul, always answering the same questions again and again before finally being let go, with a notice that the office will need to do follow up with him as per the Seoul office's request, and that he should remain in contact for the foreseeable future.

He has to endure various tests, be cross-examined by specialists, run through a gamut of lie detectors, sit through enough psych evaluations to tide him over for a lifetime. He's constantly being called to this office and that as the government tries to figure out what the hell went wrong with him. They reach out to various foreign embassies, using the same methods international matches use to find one another when they are too impatient to let the meetings happen organically, and everything turns up short. There's no reasoning behind his seeming non-existence in the realm of destiny, no method to the madness of why he never received a letter, and why no one else has ever been in the same situation. There isn't even a word for him in their language, or any other language that he knows of. No one in the world has any idea about what to do with him.

He spends a week in Seoul, poked and prodded by doctors and trailed by professors from various universities around the world, before they finally give up and let him go home, saying everything but what they don't want to admit (in that they can't do anything for him), and he nearly gets off the bus in the middle of the country, to just go and walk off into the mists that surround the endless forests and get lost there so no one would ever have to think about his freak of nature self again. He doesn't know why he stays on the bus, but soon enough he's back in Changwon, streets buzzing with a late Sunday afternoon crowd running errands, and he's almost home when he runs into her.

It takes a month for it to happen, a time frame that almost seems surprising to him in retrospect. And in all honesty, she seemed like a nice enough person, minus her intent. She couldn't have been that old, maybe only 26 or so, dressed nicely flowing summer dress against the warm May weather, and maybe it was that, her dress standing out against the brick of his apartment as she looked at the building address on the wall that made him even give her a second glance. She must have sensed him looking at her, passing by her as he walked inside, because she turns to meet his gaze, brows drawn in consternation.

"Oh! Hello there. Do you live in this building?"

He thought it was a bit obvious, keys jangling in his hand as he approached the front entrance, but he had nodded in the affirmative anyway, stopping to see what she wanted.

"Ah, good! I'm a reporter, for the Busan Ilbo, and I was wondering if you know if there's an Lee family that lives in this building. I'm looking for a young man, probably around your age, that might live here with his parents."

His heart races, because she must be looking for him, and he can guess she's not here to talk about the dance contest he won a few months back in Ulsan. He doesn't know how she would know, but the government is always screwing up, so it almost doesn't come as much of a shock to him. He should have seen this coming from the moment they promised his identity would be kept secret from any publication.

"I'm sorry," he manages to finally respond, trying to keep cool. "It's a large apartment building, and it's one of four owned by the same management on this block. I know of a good number of Lee families with sons my age. What exactly are you looking for?"

The reporter cocks her head this way and that, seeming to think over if she should divulge her purpose or not, but eventually deciding he appears trustworthy enough. "Well, I have a government insider who said there's a case here in Changwon of someone who didn't receive their letter, a very reliable source. If I can break this story, I'm getting a huge promotion, do you understand? The whole paper would get worldwide recognition! Of course, the source wouldn't spill all the details, just that it was the son of an Lee family living in this neighborhood, but, I mean, there must be a few hundred Lee families with a son that age in the city. I don't know how I'm going to find this kid. Here, let me leave you my card, and if you hear anything, you call me, okay...oh, I didn't even get your name. I'm sorry, I'm so distracted by this story now I'm not thinking properly. You are...?"

"Dongho. Uhm, Kim Dongho," he stutters, taking her card as she slides it into his hand before heading off down the street, throwing a "let me know, Dongho" over her shoulder and checking the numbers of each building as she passes by.

He doesn't tell his parents, not wanting to freak them out even more (if that were even possible). No, he rips up the card into a hundred little pieces, throwing them in the trash can in the hallway, and he goes on with his day. Because she's right, there are hundreds of Lee families in the city with sons his age, and at least four in this building, and there's no way she's going to find out it's him.

And she doesn't. The street reporter for the local news channel, however...

He's headed home from running errands with Hojun when they run into small crowd outside their building, semi-circled around a man with a camera and a woman he's seen on TV before. He knows they're not recording, the cameraman standing idly by, smoking a cigarette, and the woman talking off to the side with Mrs. Jung, the widow who lives next door to him. He's curious, Hojun even more so, but they really need to get the groceries they picked up for their mom to her, and they part through the crowd, headed for the building entrance, when Mrs. Jung calls out to them.

"Lee Howon! Lee Hojun! Come here, please. I think this woman is looking for one of you."

He wants to bolt, to run inside and up the stairs and into his apartment where he can hide and pretend like he's normal and pretend like this is all a bad dream, maybe if he just waits a little longer he'll wake up. But he can't, not without looking even more suspicious, and he mechanically walks forward, Hojun confused at his side.

He knows Mrs. Jung didn't meant it, because there's no way she could have any idea, but he'll still never be able to forgive her, not in a million years. She drags him in, going on about how the reporter was looking for one of the Lee boys who lived in this building and had been subject to a study, and it had to be one of them two because Hojae had already moved out, she was sure it was one of them.

The woman turns to him, asking him straight out "are you the young man who didn't receive his letter by his nineteenth birthday?" and he can see the camera, it's red recording light mocking him, and he can hear the gasp of the crowd, the confused stuttering of Mrs. Jung, the shocked murmurs of the couple who live downstairs from them, can feel their eyes beating down on him. He barely manages to react when Hojun starts screaming to leave him alone, but then his fight or flight instinct kicks in, and he, a third dan black belt, runs away like a little kid, dragging Hojun along with him.

They had promised, had swore no one would ever find out who he was, that in those instances that official records must be recorded, he'd be referred to as Person A, but of course he should have known better than to trust them. Someone in the department couldn't (or wouldn't) keep it in, and while he understands (he  _is_  literally the only known person in the whole world to be in this situation, the enormity of that even gets to him at times), he's still just a person, a person with dreams and aspirations and a beating heart and fragile body just like everyone else, and he doesn't deserve to be defined by this, to be drawn into the ring in front of the public eye, to be looked at like a side-show exhibit, buy your morning paper or turn on your nightly news and look at the freak.

For the first time ever, he learns to appreciate the overreaching arm of the government in their censorship of media, because before the news anchor can even think to edit whatever story she was putting together, she's being shipped off to Jeju to read the daily tides and wave height projections and stories about squid festivals. His story is banned from all publications under the punishment of swift shutdown (though the official reasoning, according to a department head who explains the situation to him, is that his story may induce worldwide panic, something that does little to make him feel better). If anything, it just pushes him closer to his breaking point, and he has no idea what will happen when he finally can't take it anymore.

He thinks it's the moment when he goes out to get some detergent for his mom from the corner store that really pushes him over the edge. The word-of-mouth story of his encounter with the newswoman couldn't be censored by the government, town gossips chattering away, and it isn't long before he starts getting odd looks around his neighborhood, his old neighbors now staring at him as if he's grown two heads overnight. This particular time, he didn't even know the woman, had never seen her before in his life, but she apparently knew who he was, her hand familiar on his arm as she stopped him.

"I'm so, so sorry for your...situation. I can't imagine how you must feel. I'll pray for you."

He could feel the eyes of everyone in the whole store on him, watching him turn and leave, eyes mixed with pity and something like discomfort. He's a fucking oddball. A freak. The first person in human history to be unmatched, and he can't even buy toilet paper anymore without someone rubbing in how shit his life is.

He decides that night he has to leave, to get out of Changwon and out from under his parent's constant supervision, his mom's worry that makes her sick over him, his dad's confusion and disappointment and shame over how wrong his life has turned out. Leave and forget the people who want to hug him when he's checking the mail, as if it's some consolation to him, that tell him they'll pray for him when he's throwing out the trash, like that will help anything. He needs to do something, to start over again, or he's going to go crazy.

So he packs up and goes to Seoul, promising himself he'll never look back.


	2. Chapter 2

_Seoul, 2009_

His parents hadn't been thrilled over his choice, to say the least. It probably hadn't helped that he didn't give them any warning, simply walking out of his room one day, bag with all his necessary possessions slung over one shoulder as he said his goodbyes. He hated to be that callous, to walk away with nothing else said, but he knew if he had given them notice, a heads up that he'd be leaving in a month or so, they'd find ways to make him stay, to keep him in Changwon with them under the guise of filial obligation or some other excuse. As much as he loved them, the whole town had become suffocating, and even his mother's crying face as his closed the door to the apartment for the last time didn't make him falter.

_Just get away_ , he had thought.  _If you can get away, you can survive this._

* * *

He arrives in Seoul on a late night in the middle of summer, the sweltering stillness shocking him after growing up near the coast for so long. He finds a cheap hostel, surprisingly clean, just for the night, and makes a promise to himself he'll find more suitable lodgings tomorrow. He's exhausted, mentally and physically, but he goes out to explore anyway, getting lost along the way but not minding; the city is bustling at 2 in the morning, and he walks amongst the hundreds of people, none of them giving him a second glance. No one looks at him with pity or hesitation, no one even looks at him at all. For all they know or care, he's just an ordinary person with no defining qualities that would separate him from anyone else in the world. It's euphoric, the anonymity.

The old lady who runs the hostel provides him a filling breakfast, patting his cheek comfortingly in a way that reminds him of his grandmother, and she sits and talks for him a while as he eats. She goes on for a while, mentioning the hundreds of people she's seen come into the city, looking to make it big, a few top celebrities even staying in her hostel in their more humble days. He mentions something about his obviousness, that she could see through him so easily, and it makes her laugh, wrinkles crinkling as her mouth pulls wide

"Ah, I've seen so many of you come through these doors, I can spot you from a mile away now! What else would a handsome young man like yourself be doing in the city, if not trying to find his luck. So which one is it- acting, singing, modeling? It must be acting, your face is handsome enough, but your height...eh, not so good for the runways, hm?"

He laughs along with her, not minding the dig. It's been so long since he's been able to be carefree, even temporarily, and it feels good to laugh, to have a conversation with someone not centered on the subject of his anomaly. He explains what he's here for, that he's not hoping to make it big, just work behind the scenes, and she catches him off guard when she asks him to prove himself, right there in the den. He looks around frantically, taken aback but not wanting to disappoint her, and that makes her laugh even harder, patting his knee before standing up, bones popping as she rises.

"Not now, this old woman has work to do! Here, bring your dishes to the kitchen, and I'll go get you some things you'll need for the day."

He follows her order, waiting in the lobby until she brings him a stack of papers, notes written in flowing handwriting on the margins.

"Here, these are a few places you might want to start. I know you have your fancy-schmancy phones with the internet and GPS, but I just wrote down some area you might want to look for a place to live, landlords you might want to see, good people I know, and some places you might need to visit like the grocery store, that kind of stuff. If you can't do what you need to do today, come on back here, the door will always be open for you."

It feels good when she hugs him goodbye, knowing that even though he's just stepped into a city of 10 million strangers, someone cares enough to see him do well; the balance is nice, being unknown except for the good people who have your back. It's not even 10 am, but he has a full belly, a clear conscience, and a plan, and he knows today is going to be a good day.

* * *

All in all, the day goes much better than he expects, and by 2:30, he has the keys to his own  _goshiwon_  (or over-glorified shoebox, he supposes). It isn't much but a bed, a desk, and a bathroom, but he figures he'll rarely be home anyway, and this is just temporary until he gets on his feet. Besides, beggars can't be choosers, and he only has so much money saved up.

He runs all the errands he can possibly think of, wanting to get everything out of the way immediately so he can concentrate on finding a gig without distractions, and he hits up the grocery store, the bank, and finally to get his ID card updated with his new address. Luckily, the line isn't long, and it's only a few minutes before he's called up to the teller's desk.

"Hi, I just need to update my ID with my new information," he says, handing over his old one when she prompts him for it. She types in his information, pulling up his file to update it, before she freezes, eyes moving between him and the computer screen.

"Ummm," she draws out, looking over her shoulder for someone. "Please hold on a moment."

At first he can't comprehend what's going on, and when the lightbulb goes off, he can't imagine why the department is messing around with his driver's license. The teller comes back, supervisor in tow, and they both look at the screen, reading it over, before the supervisor picks up the desk phone, punching in a number. They all wait while the call goes through, the supervisor saying a few words and apparently being redirected numerous times before getting the person she wants. The conversation seems mostly one-sided, a lot of "uh-huhs" and "yes, I see" and a single "he's right here, yes, right now" before she finally puts the receiver down and looks at him.

"I can give you your new card today, but they said you need to come in to the office as soon as possible to update them on your change in location. They said you'd know who I'm speaking off," she nearly whispers, careful not to let their conversation be overheard by the various other tellers and people in the room, and his own teller is looking at him with a sense of awe and fear, as if she's trying to discern if he's a spy or a recently-freed felon.

They can't print out his card fast enough, and he speeds out of the building, feeling like a spectacle again. He doesn't know why the department is keeping tabs on him (well, that's not true, he knows exactly why, but pretending he has nothing they'd want to keep him in their sights about makes him feel better), and, well, it's free country - there's no law stating he's obligated to take time out of his day whenever they call him. It's not an official summons, so really, he has no intention of stepping into that office again.

* * *

He totally forgets the summons as the next few days fly by, and he manages to hook up with one of his friends from his freestyling days in Busan, who gets him in with the right crowds. Within two weeks, he's already been in a few contests, not as great as the best that Seoul's underground has to offer, but not far off from the top, and he wins a contest at a club that pays him 500,000 won. It's not a lot, especially in an expensive city like Seoul, but it'll keep a roof over his head and kimchi and rice in his stomach for at least another month, if he spends wisely.

It's an ordinary Sunday afternoon in late June when he meets Jungho. He's at his usual weekend hangout, freestyling with some random groups from around the city in Olympic Park, where he spends most of his day, having little one on one dance offs with some of the guys. It's a good place to network, to see what other people are doing and learn from them, and it gets him out of the cave he calls home for a while.

He's taking a breather, watching a girl he's seen a few times totally school the rest of the guys at b-boying, and he barely notices when someone sits down beside him until he starts talking. He doesn't even introduce himself at first, talking about how he's seen Howon around for a while now and he's really impressed with his skill. He's heard this a hundred times, seen a bunch of kids, especially the younger, more naive ones, get approached and promised this and that, and he goes to brush him off, turning to say "no thanks" when he finally takes a good look at him.

"You're Lee Jungho..."

"That's what they tell me."

Everyone on the underground scene knows Lee Jungho, whether they love him or hate him. He's one of them, or at least was one of them, until working his way up to his own studio back in the late 90s. Some of them view him as a sell out, trading a real love of dance for working with some of the bigger pop groups, but everyone has to respect him. He worked his way up from the bottom, and he's living the dream most of them have for themselves.

He quickly introduces himself, humbled by Jungho's compliments towards his dancing, and kicking himself for being off-standish from the get go. They talk for a while, Jungho asking about where he's from, what he wants to do, and he's completely shocked when Jungho casually asks him if he wants a job.

"I mean, I'm honored, really, but I'm not even the best dancer out here, hyung," he says, flustered and shocked that of all the people he could have chosen, he's the one Jungho noticed out of the crowd.

Jungho seems to think this over before addressing his concerns, eyes scanning over the group still dancing. "It's true that some of your skills are surpassed by some of the people out here. Maybe you can't b-boy like some of them, but that's not what I'm looking for. You have more of an R&B style I guess, and I've just been approached to do all the choreography for a new group that's debuting soon that has that kind of vibe. I'd love to say yes, but I'm swamped at the moment, and I'll need someone to help me out with them. And I think that you'd fit that role perfectly. So what do you say?"

Hell yeah is what he says.

* * *

So he gets to live out his dream. He starts working for Jungho's studio, working almost solely with the new group that Jungho hired him to help out with, and for once in his life, he actually feels good about himself. When the group, a quintet called Triumph, gets in the paper for their eye-catching choreography, particularly a move that he had created (and argued with Jungho over for weeks), Jungho gives him a big enough bonus (a little too big, if you ask him) that he can move out of his shoebox and into a decent-sized loft in which he can stand in the middle and not touch every wall from his spot. His mom is proud, his dad still reluctant, but it's what it is: he's a new person now.

Or not exactly.

He changes his address again, hopefully this time for a good while, and he's just gotten completely moved in when they find him. He's still getting to know the group at the studio, not quite buddy-buddy yet, and so far his time in Seoul has been pretty solitary, so he doesn't know who'd be knocking at his door. He figures it must be his landlord (he's heard Seoul-dwellers are pretty cold, so he doesn't think a neighbor has stopped by to introduce themselves), and is generally confused when he opens the door.

The guy can't be that much older than him, professionally dressed in a wrinkle-less button down and black slacks, and he can't help but feel this guy is obviously in the wrong place.

"Uhm, may I help you?"

"Actually, yes you may. Or you might have, if you had follow directions clearly a few months ago, Howon-ssi."

He doesn't know how the guy knows his name, how the guy knows where he lives, or what the hell the guy is talking about, and he almost goes to slam the door shut before he spots the official ID card hanging off one of the guys belt loops.

"Shit."

The guy laughs at that, apparently not offended by profanity from a stranger as a first impression, and he slips one foot in the door, belatedly asking "may I come in?"

He walks past Howon, taking in the apartment as Howon sputters, thinking of some response and totally taken aback. Can a government official just walk into his house? Is that even legal? Doesn't he have some rights?

"What are you doing here?" he finally manages to get out, flustered by the guy's casualness as he opens the fridge, shuffles through the magazines on the coffee table, and flops down on the couch like he owns the place.

"We need to talk, Howon-ssi."

_Well, of course_ , he thinks.  _It's totally natural for a department worker to make a 30 minute drive without calling or otherwise announcing his proposed visit just so they can have a nice chit-chat. Why didn't he realize that immediately?_

_Oh wait._

"Uh...here?"

"Well, personally I would have loved to have this conversation in my office, but seeing as you blatantly ignored a direct request for your lovely presence at the department...Plan B was necessary."

Oh yeah.

"Well...not to be rude, but, uh, do you mind telling me who you are?"

Who he is turns out to be Inguk, his apparent new case manager, just assigned to him at the beginning of summer. He didn't even know he had a case manager, but apparently since they figured nothing exciting is going to happen with him any time soon, they filed him away under one person and moved on to bigger and better things. He supposes he would feel good about that, that his case has lost its excitement to them, but obviously they are still following him around, so it's not much of a consolation.

"So can I ask why you're tracking me? Why you're showing up at my door? Why we needed to talk in the first place?"

Inguk doesn't lose his infernal smile the whole time, apparently not at all bothered by his anger. It's maddening, not only the intrusion, but the fact that this guy wants to act all buddy-buddy with him. He doesn't care how close they seemingly are in age, they're  _not_  friends.

"Tracking? Howon-ssi, most governments "track" where its constituents live. Don't be so offended! Besides, it's not like you can act like you don't know why the department wants to know where you are. If another case pops up anywhere in the world, we're going to need you at a moment's notice. Also, I'm not sure if you realized, but just because you're the first case of this happening, it doesn't mean you'll be the only case. We all know that methods of transmission have changed over time, and there's even growing studies showing that there might have been transmission before written language was even invented, though finding sufficient proof is difficult. Your case could be the first in a new evolution; it's possible human life as we know it is outgrowing the need for the letters."

Well, alright, no, he hadn't realized that. He'd been so caught up in his own little bubble of misery that he hadn't really thought about the fact that, yeah, transmission has changed over thousands of years, and that he could be the first in a line of people not receiving their letters. The idea makes him uncomfortable inside.

"I'm sorry...I still don't understand why you're here," he says, trying to get off the subject. "So you're supposed to keep track of me, just for the hell of it?"

"No, don't be silly! I'm here to make you feel better."

Howon stares at him increduosuly, and Inguk keeps smiling, and he has to admit that, maybe, if they met in school or something, they would be friends, because Inguk has such an easy-going personality... _wait, no Howon,_  he thinks,  _do not becoming friendly with the enemy_.

"Make me feel better? How?"

"I'm a psychologist, Howon. Social psychologist, specifically. Seo Inguk, MS social psychology, UCLA, at your service," he flourishes, hand waving as he bows.

Oh. Great. Another psychologist. How wonderful.

"I though you guys did research..."

"We do."

"So how did you end up in the department, then?"

Inguk's mouth twitches, as if he's trying hard not to laugh. "Nepotism. The government's actually not so keen on allowing it, except for family members."

And as much as he hates it,  _he_  starts laughing. Hard. Fraternizing with the enemy and all aside, this guy is pretty funny, and this is the most at ease he's been with someone who knows his secret. Dammit.

"See? Aren't you feeling better already?" Inguk says, eyes twinkling, and alright, this guy isn't so bad. But he's not up to be psycho-analyzed again, and he says as much.

"Actually, I'm not here today for that. I was just making sure you were okay, getting settled in and comfortable. I think it would be better if we talked in my office, hm? Maybe once a week?"

"No. What do you even want to know? My life isn't that exciting."

"Well," Inguk says, smile gone for the first time, "I think it's best if you have someone to talk to here. Are you going to pretend like the situation is completely fine and you're not affected by it? Your parents said you left Changwon quite quickly, with no forewarning, and-"

"You talked to my parents?"

"Ah, yes. I thought it was necessary."

He feels embarrassed, wondering what he parents might have said about his cold departure and distant behavior with him, and he suddenly feels boxed in, like the whole world is against him again. Inguk seems to see him begin to shut down, and he backs off quickly, getting up to leave and give him some space.

"Look, how about once a month? Everyone needs someone to talk to, and hey, I can make you laugh if you want. You come in when you're ready, and I'll be there, okay?"

He nods once, not currently planning on taking him up on his offer but also not wanting to be rude, and if Inguk sees through him, he doesn't push. He opens his bag, digging around for a moment, before dropping a pamphlet on Howon's coffee table.

"I'm leaving this here, okay? It's the information for the support groups in the city for those without matches. I know, I know, you don't want to go, but if you need someone and you don't want to look at my face, well, they make a good second-best."

And with that, he's gone, letting himself out the entrance without another word. Howon sits on the couch for god knows how long, trying to figure out everything that just happened, and after a while, he picks up the paper and opens it.

* * *

Everything about Inguk and the department and support groups is the very anti-thesis of Lee Howon. He doesn't need anyone, doesn't need people's sympathy or empathy or sad eyes and pathetic hugs or any of that shit.

No, the only reason he even goes to the support group in the first place is because he needs to work on his cover story.

He had gotten close to the Triumph guys over the last month or so, working with them 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, and they and a few of the other dancers at the studio ended up at his apartment one night, 10 people cramped in his tiny loft with more alcohol he's ever seen in his life.

They all get completely hammered, two handles of Absolut and one bottle of Jim Beam destroyed between them (not to mention the soju and beer), and they end up swapping raunchy stories, obviously trying to one up each other.

Hyunwoo, the oldest and leader of the group, is getting shit for ruining the conversation by talking about his match of two years, Junhwa, and turning their hot conversation into a romance drama, but Hyunwoo flicks them all off, talking over the yells as he goes on anyways. Howon's listening, a deep sense of dread and emptiness in his stomach, as Hyunwoo describes what he's always wanted to feel.

"Naw, bro, like, the moment I got that letter, I knew shit was going to be insane. Like, my letter felt like...I can't even describe it, man. The moment I held it, it was crazy. I could feel it throughout my whole body. And the first time I ever touched her, even held her hand, it was the same. Pure lightning coursing through me."

"So the first time you hit it, it was sick right?"

"Fuck yeah it was! Why do you think I'm so crazy about her?"

He wants to take part in this conversation, to have something to add and not just be a sitting duck, trying desperately to go undetected but completely losing. Hyunwoo slaps him on the back, making him swallow his soju awkwardly, and he asks him the question he's been dreading for months.

"So, what was it like for you? We've already heard each other's stories a million times, but we haven't heard your's yet. So, tell us about it."

"Uh...what?"

"What did it feel like? Your letter?"

"Uhm, paper?"

They all laugh at this, though he has no idea why, and Jungmo, one of the dancers in the studio, calls out "ooh, we got a smart ass here!" None of this makes sense to him, at all.

"No, dude, seriously. Are you saying you didn't feel anything?"

"I guess?"

Maybe he should have lied, made something up on the spot like " _I felt fireworks_ " or pulled out something like Hyunwoo's electricity, but he was worried he'd be even more obvious, and besides, he's pretty sure they are all just embellishing how excited they were when they got their letter in the first place. He's known amongst them for being pretty emotionless, so saying he didn't feel anything probably makes sense for him anyways.

Or maybe not. Because they're all staring at him with slack-jawed faces, a mix of horror and worry painted in their eyes. Whatever he answered was totally, completely the wrong thing to say.

Hyunwoo grabs his shoulders, fingers digging into his muscle, and he turns to look at him, stomach painfully churning glasses of soju. Hyunwoo looks ashen, and completely sober, and he can't stop himself from asking "what?"

"Dude...you're supposed to feel something. That's how you know it's your letter. If not, like, anyone could drop a letter in your mailbox with a name on it, and you would never know the difference. Are you saying you didn't feel anything? Maybe we should look at your letter..."

Well,  _that_  explains a lot.

They're all looking at him as if he's gone crazy, and he has to take a deep breath before panicking. He's tipsy, not thinking straight, and he barely manages to make something up on the spot at all.

"I- I did feel something. Uhm, it felt...uh, like a deep longing I guess. Painful and good at the same time. I, uhm, I'm a...mismatch. So I guess that's why. It felt like all the things I would end up feeling anyways. I just, uh, I really hate talking about it, so..."

It sounds really stupid and fake to him, but whether it's the fact they are all drunk, or just unknowledgeable about mismatches, they don't seem to realize he just pulled that out of his ass, and they all start apologizing at once, a mix of "I'm sorry man" and "if I had known..." and "dude, I'm an ass for saying anything". He lets them apologize, not hiding the pain on his face because they all take it as a hint to leave, and he's too tired to keep up an act anymore anyways. Hyunwoo is the last one to go, a tight hug before he leaves, and it makes him feel even worse. He's lying to his friends, and they all believe him.

And now he has to keep up this stupid story he's gotten himself into.

* * *

The group is only a means of keeping up the facade, he repeatedly tells himself. He's only going to go to a few, see how real mismatches handle the situation, maybe pick up a few bits of their stories to use himself, and then he can tell his mom and his friends and Inguk (who he plans to go see, for whatever reason) that he's getting the support he needs and they can all get off his back.

He picks one out of the pamphlet Inguk left him, a meeting that's only a few blocks from his house on Sunday mornings, the only day the studio is closed, and he slides in a minute before it starts, hoping to avoid any unnecessary small talk with the people there.

There are only 15 people in this group, besides himself, but then again, being a mismatch is only so common. Most of the people he can tell are only a few years older than himself, two or three older looking adults, and a girl he would guess is only a high schooler. They go around, introducing themselves, and going on how their week has been, if they talked to their match or not, how well they are handling it this week. He keeps mental notes when he learns something interesting, like how people tend to get almost ill if they go too long without speaking to their match, and he wonders if it's all in their heads, or an actual reaction. It sounds terrible, either way.

He doesn't even look up when she enters, enthralled by an older woman's story, talking about how her match's wife has recently died and how bad she feels for being hopeful, but when she sits next to him, he can't help but look over.

"Hello, Howon-ssi," she whispers, careful not to disrupt the ahjumma talking.

_Fuck_.

He had no idea that Seungah was a mismatch, or that she attended these groups too. He vaguely knows her, seeing as she usually works with the girl groups or the younger girl trainees and they only overlap on projects every so often. If anything, she can get a little flirty with him at times, and the fact that she's matched to someone else takes him by surprise. Still, it's about to be his turn to speak, and he has no idea what to say so he looks convincing. He knew he should have stayed home.

"Uh, hi noona. I didn't know..."

"No, me either. Good on us, acting all normal and shit." She says it as a joke, but the darkness of her implication underlies it, and they both swallow uncomfortably and look away.

The leader of the group turns to him, a kind smile on his face, and motions for him to speak.

"Hi, uhm, I'm Lee Howon. This is my first time here."

They all stare him, politely waiting for him to continue, and the deafening silence rings in his ears as he reaches for something to say. Seungah's expectant stare beside him doesn't help, and he knows if he fucks this up at all, he's going to have to actually explain to her, now or later, what is going on.

And he'd rather set himself on fire than do that.

So he just mumbles off some bullshit, saying stuff like "I just found out recently" and "I can't talk about it yet" and they all nod in sympathy, like they had been there one time too. It makes him feel so cheap, and he reminds himself to ask Inguk what the hell he was thinking when he thought this would be a good idea.

Seungah's next, going off about some guy named Joonmoon, and how it's surprising to her that it's already been four years since she found out. The leader asks her how she's handling it, and she says she's doing okay, they had a nice phone call the other day, and it made her feel better. Howon can't help but be moved by her, by the fact she keeps going and lives a normal life, when so often he wants to shut down and quit - and he's not even unrequitedly in love with someone.

The session ends, everyone saying their goodbyes, and Seungah pulls him along with her outside, arm around his shoulder, but not with the usual overwhelming pity he gets from people who know (or pseudo-know) his story.

"I've been there, buddy. Keep your head up, and you'll make it through. I'm going to guess you don't want to talk about it yet, but if you need me, call me."

They part at the crosswalk, each going their separate ways, and maybe going to the stupid meeting wasn't such a bad idea after all.

* * *

He can't say the same about his meeting with Inguk.

Sure, Inguk's a cool guy, if you really asked him, but he has such a way of getting under his skin, making him question himself, that he finds himself a bit put-off for the whole hour. Inguk praises him for going to the meeting, socializing more with people from work (Seungah included), and having his parents visit him for the first time in Seoul.

But the bastard acts like he should do more. Like he should forget the world took a huge shit on his life and act like everything's all fine and dandy. He's the only person in the world who is in this situation, and he's not going to let anyone else tell him how he should feel.

(It only sounds slightly petty to himself.)

He knows. He knows he should try, should live his life fully anyways, and Inguk makes a good point that, truthfully, he's in the same situation as mismatches and the soulless, and they still manage to get married, have families, all that meaningful shit. Inguk is like a broken record, repeating himself again and again as he says "matches are the person you are  _best_ suited to be with, not the  _only_  person that could suit you" and "didn't you date in high school anyways?" and, well, yeah, he did, but everyone knows high school dating was just screwing around until you got your letter anyways.

He leaves Inguk's feeling much worse (or really, just guilty about his continued moping), and spends the whole commute home wondering if Inguk is right. On one hand, Inguk has no right to tell him what to do, has no experience but second-hand observation, and he can't help but feel that any nugget of wisdom he's spouting is some psychology mumbo jumbo he pulled out of a textbook and hoped he sounded smart when he was saying it. On the other hand, if Seungah is any example, it's possible to live a fulfilling life even when the cards you're dealt aren't great, and really, he doesn't see her sitting around crying about her fortune, not even in group sessions.

He figures he'll give it a try.

* * *

In some ways, as the years pass, it works out for him.

He tries not to dwell on his misfortune, focusing all his energy on his goals, and he becomes successful in his own right, working up the ranks of Jungho's studio until he's Jungho's right-hand man. He makes a sufficient amount of money, not enough to afford the most luxury of cars or apartments, but he never wants for anything, buys himself a nicer apartment, helps his parents open their own business. He has his friends, he has Seungah (whatever she is, or they are, or aren't, it's just confusing), and he even starts to date.

He gets used to the comfortable monotony. Sure, he can't keep a significant other for more than a few months (it usually only takes them 2 or 3 months to realize he's pretty much just fucking them with cuddling after, and that he's never going to be able to give them any part of his heart). It is what is it. His mom still worries about him, but isn't that all moms? He's even made better strides with his dad, and now when he goes and sees Inguk, Inguk has more positive things to say than not. He likes the routine of his life, the perfect schedules he keeps, and he doesn't want anything to change that.

At least until he meets the kid, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chp 2 is done and I haven't even introduced Sungjong what am I doing???
> 
> to be remedied shortly


	3. Chapter 3

_Seoul, 2012_

It starts with what has to be the worst god damn day of his life. Even more than when he finally realized he wasn't getting a letter.

And that's saying something.

It should have been typical. It started out as typical. Or almost. He went to the same cafe he does most mornings, ordered the same latte, at the same time, with the same muffin on the side. Sure, he got a bigger size, but hey, he and Jihoon called it off last night, after Jihoon wanted to take it further and he couldn't, and maybe he didn't sleep as much as usual. He wanted to open up to Jihoon more (god knows he was the most normal person he'd dated since high school) but something stopped him, sealing his heart before he could even try to open it. Yup, just another day in the life of Lee Howon, recluse extraordinaire.

So yeah, he splurges and gets the biggest size he can, because he feels like a shithead and he'll probably have a 12 to 14 hour day, seeing as how Triumph films their new music video in a month, and he needs to get this routine on lock before he begins the 16 to 18 hour days with them. In a weird way, he thinks maybe it's good that he and Jihoon aren't seeing each other anymore; now he won't have to worry about abandoning him for the next month or so (whatever he can tell himself to ease the sting).

He's standing by the pick-up area when she comes in, doorbell tinkling against the jazz of the cafe. He only notices her because she's looking around frantically, nearly turning in a circle, and she looks like she just ran a marathon or something. Her cheeks are red, from the exertion of whatever she's been doing or the cold spring weather coloring her face, he's not sure, and she finally calls out, making the whole cafe freeze.

"Kim Joonho!"

He's vaguely aware, from his consistent patronage of the shop, that Kim Joonho is the guy that's supposed to be making his coffee at the moment. But Kim Joonho isn't making his coffee. Kim Joonho isn't making anything right now. Kim Joonho is climbing over the counter to get to the girl in middle of the room.

He knows what's about to happen, and so does everyone else in the room, because the smart phones are coming out, ready to record away.

People aren't supposed to announce their matches in public, especially like this. It's a social formality meant to protect everyone. If it  _is_  a mis-match, the horror of being turned down, to know the one you love is destined to love someone else, and in public on top of that, is probably one of the very worst things that could happen to someone. But people still do it all the time (and with the chances so low, why not?), just like this girl is apparently about to do.

"Seulgi..." Kim Joonho is holding out his hand to this Seulgi, beckoning her to take it, and she grabs on like she's lost at sea and he's her only life raft.

"Kim Joonho," she nearly yells, obviously a little excited and very nervous. "I woke up this morning and my letter was in my mail and...and I prayed everyday that it would say Kim Joonho. Every single day since I met you, I prayed with all my heart it would be you. And when I opened it...of course it said Kim Joonho, because who else am I meant to love besides you? So I'm here before you right now to ask you, does your letter say Kang Seulgi? Please tell me it does."

It's just a formality, the answer, because Kim Joonho is crying and Kang Seulgi is crying and half of the damn coffee house is crying, but it wouldn't be picture perfect, just like in the movies, without an equally heartwarming response, he guesses.

"Kang Seulgi...I am really complete in this moment, because now I can say to everyone I meet 'I have found the other piece of my soul.' Before this moment, I was only half of myself. But now, with you by my side, I can finally say I am the person I am meant to be."

And then they are kissing, melded to each other like they really are one, and everyone is clapping and cheering and crying and he just has to get out of here, like,  _STAT_.

Maybe it's the break-up, already weighing on his mind. Maybe it's the blatant reminder that,  _hey, look at here, look how happy you could've been if you just weren't a fucking freak of nature_. Maybe it was already going to be one of those days when he just can't handle the burden of his life well. All he knows is that he leaves, leaves the muffin and half-made coffee behind, not even caring about the waste of money, because he just can't take it right now. He has to get away from this.

He wanders around the streets for a while, not caring if he's late to the studio (if being 'late' were even a thing for them on non-rehearsal days), not noticing where he's going, not even caring where he ends up, when he finally realizes he's stopped in front of the shop. He's told himself again and again that's it's just a hoax, a scam, an occupation of lies, but he reaches for the door handle anyways.

* * *

It makes no sense to him, that he's sitting here, tea in hand, waiting for the fortune-teller to call him in. He doesn't believe in this stuff, never has, and, on second thought, he almost wants to get up and leave, if it weren't for the (albeit very polite) woman behind the desk, waiting patiently for her signal to usher him in.

The shop doesn't look as hokey as he might have imagined. The fortune-teller must be doing pretty well; he sees her photo on the wall, a little blurb underneath it, and she seems to be the sole owner of the place. It's a small shop, but well decorated - she must be good, endorsed by a number of people, because she's not on the streets in a little tent like most of the fortune-tellers his grandparents visit. There are even photos of her with politicians, athletes, a few singers, signed autographs saying "thank you for the help" and "this is the real deal". Hopefully she can work her "magic", or whatever it is, with him as well.

The woman behind the desk finally waves him her way, walking down a hall to a room with two couches, facing each other across a table, and she motions for him to sit down, closing the door behind them. The fortune-teller is in the far corner of the room, washing her hands in a steel bowl, and he's a bit surprised by her appearance. She looks, well, normal, dressed in a cream sweater and a black skirt, not the shaman outfit or magician's robe he was half-expecting. She walks over, greeting him warmly, and asks him to explain what he wants today, his expectations and any questions he hopes to answer.

He has no plans to tell her about his situation; if she's as real as the photos posted outside on the wall are suggesting, than she should be able to figure it out by herself, right? So he just gives the usual answer, that he's wanting to know if he'll meet the person he's supposed to by the end of the year (being as vague in his wording as he possibly can), and she nods, shuffling tarot cards absent-mindedly as she listens. He places his hand on the deck, repeating the question as if he were addressing it to fate or fortune or the spirits, and he breaks the deck, handing her the three stacks he creates.

She has him lay them out on the table, silently reading them over, before staring up at him abruptly, face unreadable. She continues staring, eyes searching his face again and again, before quietly saying "leave."

At first, he thinks she's talking to him, unsure in this sudden dismissal, until he sees how her eyes have cut over to her assistant, still sitting silently in a chair by the door. His gaze moves between them, noticing the electricity for the first time, and he realizes they are matched. Whatever is going on, the assistant doesn't like it either, face painted in fear, and she stays unmoving, obviously not willing to be abandon her match to whatever is going on.

"Unnie?"

"I said leave."

There's no anger in her voice, nothing too unusual, but the slight tremble of,  _what is it_ , something, at the end. The assistant seems determined to stay, a silent battle of wills continuing between them, before finally sighing and standing, a last look thrown over her shoulder, and Howon watches her leave, wondering if it's an act or not, meant to create a sense of mystery or drama. He watches the door close, barely sealed behind the departing woman, when the fortune-teller pulls his wrist forward, dragging his body to lean over the table.

"What  _are_  you?"

He can hear the fear in her voice now, a slight twinge overshadowed by intrigue and confusion, and he stupidly shrugs in response.  _I'm just Lee Howon_ , he says.  _I'm just an average 22-year-old._

"No, you're not, and even you must know that. I mean, you're not- you must be though- I don't understand."

Her hand rises to touch his face, fingers poking his cheek roughly, like she had expected them to go through, and she sits back, hand raising to her mouth as she contemplates what she sees before her, like he's a ghost or figment of her imagination.

"You're...real. Alive. But how?"

He has no idea what the hell is going on, and he's reminded of the conversation he had with Hojun, when he had learned about the soulless and how he had wanted to Hojun to suddenly say he was joking, that he was just pulling his leg and it was all a lie. Of course he's alive. He's sitting right here. What does she even mean by that?

"I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm not dead," he responds, trying to find an answer for her. "I've never talked to a dead person, and I don't think I can cross planes of existence, so I'm not, I don't know, half-dead either."

It sounds stupid to him, that he would have to defend his being like it were even a question, but she nods, looking at the cards again, eyes distant like she's listening to a far-off sound.

"Sorry, of course you're alive. I just mean...you're not here or there. I don't know how else to explain it. You're here on Earth, physically, but your spirit isn't. Or is, somewhere, but it's not around you, and they can't see it. And if your spirit were there, well, it would be with them, so it would be no question about them seeing it. That's why you never got a letter - fate can't see you. It can't acknowledge that you're here on Earth, but it also can't check you off it's list as being part of the spirit world. You don't exist to the other realms."

 _Well_ , he thinks,  _authenticity verified_. There's no way in hell she could know about the no letter thing. But if she's the real deal...then what the hell is going on in his life? He's stuck between two worlds? Or wait, his spirit is stuck, somewhere, maybe. How could his spirit just disappear? And who are the 'they' she keeps referring to?

"Uh, so what does this mean? How could I lose my spirit? I mean, it seems a bit necessary for existence, no? Am I immortal then? How can you even tell I don't have one, or mine, or whatever?"

She taps one finger against her temple, probably an nervous tic when she's thinking, and she stares at the cards, mulling over whatever she wants to say.

"Let me explain; it's a bit tricky. Now, obviously, spirits are like, um, energy, I guess. Law of conservation of spiris, if you will. They aren't destroyed, they transfer from one place to another. Your spirit enters the world when you're born, and leaves when you die. Now, your souls a bit different - you only get that when you're alive, and that's the real part of you that keeps you alive. Your soul defines you dreams, aspirations, all your feelings, very temporal things. Your spirit, it's your one vessel, it can hold many of your souls, if you make multiple trips between the worlds. So, you can't lose your spirit, completely. It's just that, on the way here, apparently your spirit got stuck, for whatever reason. Or that's what they, the spirits, think. Spirits don't really walk away from bodies, so that has to be what happened. Since they can't see you here, and since you're not part of the spirit world there, you must be in-between. Anyway, since your spirit is what intercedes between the soul, that which perceives the physical world, and the higher worlds, those which bequeath fate and all its repercussions, you essentially are living a fate-free life here."

"Well, can't they check the other, uh, middle world? If they can see here and there, why can't they just take a look at the third world and see if it's there?"

The fortune-teller closes her eyes, as if not wanting to disappoint him, and his stomach knots if expectation of what she might say.

"The middle-world, it's a very...odd place. Some say you learn everything there, right before your born, and right after you die, but you never process it all because it goes by so quickly. No one really knows everything that happens there, because it's sealed off besides the spirits that are departing or embarking. It's like a black tunnel almost; the spirits can go the edge, but they can't see down it."

It's so much to take in, and none of it makes sense. So his spirit is apparently stuck in between the world of the living and the world of the dead, and because of that, fate can't acknowledge him, hence his lack of matches? And that's just saying that that  _is_  the case here, because no one, dead or alive or whatever spirits are, can even confirm that's what actually happened, they're just using process of elimination to deduce where he could be. His fucking luck (or lack thereof).

"Then what does this mean for my life? I don't understand the implications of this."

"Fate is a tricky thing. Some people think it doesn't exist. Some people think everything is fate. For you, fate doesn't see you, like I said. So you'll never have a fateful event happen in your life. That's just how it is. Everything you want, you'll have to work for, probably harder than the rest of us. For example, fate is having a great-great-aunt you never knew who happens to be a billionaire leave you all her money even though you've never met. For you, you'd have to be buddy-buddy, talk-every-Thursday-evening with that great-great-aunt for the same thing to happen. People confuse fate with human actions all the time; if someone get's mugged in the street, that's not a bad fate. That's a person being bad and their actions affecting someone else. But if they're only in that street because they decided to take the long way home for the first time ever, and they just happen to have 400,000 won in the wallet even though they never carry that much on them, well, fate might be playing a trick in that case. There's no comparison chart of what's fate and what's just ordinary human-initiated events, so I can't tell you what you're life is going to look like, but let's just say, I wouldn't play the lotto if I were you."

Her explanation just adds on the confusion, even though he understands what she's saying. Hasn't he been lucky before? Wasn't meeting Jungho almost a twist of fate in itself? Sure, it was Jungho's habit for years to watch the dancers in the park (and Howon certainly isn't the first person he's hired that way), but it all seems so unlikely. But, then again, it is true he's never caught a break, never won anything in his life that he didn't earn through sweat and tears. Huh.

"So what do my cards say, then?"

She laughs, a pretty sound, and if his mind weren't spinning like a toy top at the moment, he might be comforted by her joviality and the way it lights up her face.

"Absolutely nothing! That's why I was so shocked. It's like starting a path by following arrows, but realizing after a while the arrows just keep going in a circle, not leading you anywhere. Every card that had a fate ended up being negated by the exact opposite card on the next turn. Such a strange phenomena, truly."

"So you can't answer anything about, uhm, me and any matches then?" he asks hopefully, and she shrugs in response.

"I can only tell you you need a spirit, a present on Earth spirit, for fate to give you a match. Matches transcend even the soul, because when you leave here, your spirit will still remember it's match. You can still date, of course, and probably have a meaningful relationship if you put work in like everything else, but you won't have a true match without a present spirit."

That just leaves him one final question, then.

"How do I get reunited with my spirit?"

"Well," she says uncomfortably, laughter long gone now. "Like I said, your spirit can never be destroyed. You'll be reunited, once again, because there's no other option for it. It's inevitable. You'll meet it again when you cross over. You have to die."

* * *

When he finally makes it to work, the kid behind the front desk begins to tease him about being late before realizing his mistake, and he storms past him, running up the stairs two at a time and locking himself in the corner dance studio on the fourth floor, turning the music way up. After a while, he hears Seungah, a faint voice mostly drowned out by the bass, but he ignores her; they have a key for the room anyway, and if they really needed him, they'd just unlock it.

(He appreciates the fact that they don't.)

He doesn't know how long he dances, sun rising to the middle of the sky and falling behind the skyscrapers he can see from the window in the distance, and he tries his hardest to block out everything (all while failing miserably). Maybe fate can't see him, but some force of nature is screwing with him for sure. The break-up would be one thing, but then seeing the scene in the coffee shop, and the fortune-teller saying he can only be reunited with his spirit if he dies, it all seems like a big slap in the face, like the world is just saying "off yourself now and get it over with because you'll never be happy." He keeps thinking about his lonely apartment, his disappointed parents, his siblings own matches, and he dances harder, faster, pushing it all away. He literally cannot imagine how the day could get any worse.

Unfortunately for him, his imagination is severely lacking today, and it gets much, much worse.

He finally manages to do a good job at blocking everything out, especially when he missteps, wrenching his knee painfully, and the only thing he's thinking at the moment is  _whitehotsearingpaingodmakeitstop_  and after a minute or eternity, Jungho's there, face hovering above him through the haze of his pain, and he can just make out the repeated mantra of "I'm here, Hoya. I'm going to get you to the hospital. I'm here. I'm here."

* * *

"Fortunately, it's only a grade 1 MCL tear. It could take up to three months to heal, but you'll probably be in the clear in about 6 weeks, if you stick to the treatment correctly. Absolutely no dancing, understood? Stick to biking or walking once you feel better, but any jerky movements like those you do will make it worse, not to mention probably be excruciating to attempt. Keep the brace on and take the physical therapy seriously, and that will speed up the process."

He finds nothing fortunate in the situation. He has strict orders for icing and rest until the swelling goes down, a handful of NSAIDs to help it out. Jungho promises to take care of him, driving him back home from the hospital, but he brushes him off, saying he'll call the person he's been seeing (which is a lie - he hasn't seen or heard from Jihoon since he said he wasn't looking for anything more commitment-wise, and even if he were still seeing him, he can take care of his own damn self).

Luckily, there's an elevator in his apartment's building, but it only helps his accessibility so much. His bedroom is on the second floor of the loft, his shower raised in the bathroom, his kitchen small enough to make him trying to maneuver around on his crutches impossible. He's stuck on the couch, unwilling (and mostly unable) to move, almost hoping the earth would just open up and swallow him whole and put him out of his misery once and for all, when she calls. He should have known Jungho would meddle.

"Seungah, noona, how are you darling?" He puts on his best front, hoping desperately she won't offer to come over (because he won't be able to turn her down, his intentionally perpetuated isolation be damned).

Unfortunately for him, she knows him a bit too well, and she's already at his door, apparently.

"Look, I'm here. Let me in."

"What? Yeah, let me just jump off the couch. Go away."

He hears a key turn in the door, and shit, he forgot he gave her a copy.

"Yah! Why even call then, if you were going to do that?"

"Because I try to respect your privacy and space, Lee Howon. I'm not stooping to breaking and entering."

 _Well_ , he thinks,  _you kind of just did, but whatever._

Seungah doesn't say much, just prepares them dinner, straightens out his place a bit, gets him new ice. She has to help him to the bathroom, back turned to him for a smidgen of privacy, and he has to grit his teeth to not scream. Besides, her face is drawn and tired and upset, and he knows it's only slightly about his injury. He and Seungah have progressed to the point they only use each other when they absolutely need each other - a mutually beneficial relationship based on the idea they are both mis-matches with a vendetta against the world at times. It works out great for them - they understand each other on such a deep level, they always know what to say or how to act with one another.

"So, how is Joonmoon?"

Seungah freezes for just a second in the midst of doing the dishes, but he still notices. She can't slip a thing past him. Nothing else in the world could account for her being this reserved and withdrawn.

"He's good. The whole family is. His wife is due in a few months, he told me. Twins. He's very happy, of course. Who wouldn't be?"

She always says his wife, and never Haeun. Like saying her name would admit that she were real. He doesn't blame her though.

"Did you call him? Or actually go see him?"

He already can guess the answer. Seungah is usually on more of a high after seeing him, and now she's reserved. He knows it's part shame, the inability to let a match go, and part misery, the very acknowledgment that she's living another day without the person she loves.

"He doesn't want to upset...his wife. With the pregnancy, and all that. She's usually very, uhm, accommodating, you know, but the hormones and what not- he thought it'd be best if we kept it to phone calls for the foreseeable future."

He can hear the anger and sadness and longing in her voice, and he doesn't stop her when she comes and sits on his lap, careful not to jostle his leg. He's not surprised when he feels her lips on his jaw, his neck, his collarbones. He's seen a picture of Joonmoon before, and they could definitely be brothers, if not twins. It really explains why she gravitated toward him like a needle to a magnet from the beginning, flirting and playing when they worked together. He is her outlet, her own personal Joonmoon knock-off, and she...well, he guesses she's actually pretty close to what he dreamed of when he was much younger, when he wondered what type of person his letter would reveal. And that's why he and her work together so well - they both are decent imitations of what they really want, and they accept that that's the extent of it all.

She pushes him back, tender in her methods, trying not to hurt him further, and when he comes back to his right mind, she's already putting her underwear back on and grabbing her bag.

"Hey, kid...let Jungho help you if he offers it, okay? You need it."

And he knows she won't be coming back to his apartment for a while...not until she sees Joonmoon again.

* * *

When he finally breaks and calls on Jungho two days later, hungry and irritated at his continued immobility, it turns out Jungho's now too busy to help.

"Look, that group that's about to debut or whatever, well, their CEO decided the choreography we made is too similar to that other groups that's winning on all the shows right now and they don't want a scandal, so I need to make a new dance and teach these kids in like a week so they can film their video. Anyways, I know I offered to help, but I can't."

"Hyung, it's fine man, no worries, I'll call someone else."

"No wait...I do have someone who can help. Really, this will be more a favor to me. My nephew's just graduated and he wants to break into the business, blah blah, you know the story. Well, anyways, my brother's, well, my sister-in-law I should say, she's really pressuring me because he has some other good skills, but he's still got that awkward post-puberty, giraffe trying to walk straight out of the womb vibe, and his dancing is pretty lacking. I know you can't show him, but he's starting from square one, so you don't even need to give him anything but pointers for a while, maybe show him some videos and what not 'til you get back on your feet. He's a real good kid, good head on his shoulders, and it would really help me out seeing as I don't have the time to personally train him anymore. And I'll pay you."

He wants to say no. This means he'll be working with this kid every day for the foreseeable future, imprisoned by his own body and stuck watching some teenager with two left feet try to blossom into an idol. But Jungho has helped him out more times than he can count, given him a job and had his back, and he can't deny him in good conscience.

"Yeah, sure, send him over. I'll get him straightened out."

* * *

He doesn't know what he expected. Certainly not this.

Lee Sungjong is definitely a giraffe straight out of the womb. His limbs are spindly, his body so small, even for his height, and he's pretty sure there's an S-line going on beneath that baggy shirt. Still, he seems like a polite kid, making sure they have lunch to eat before they even sit down to discuss how the next few weeks of training are going to go.

"So...Hoya? That's what your name is, right hyung?"

His nickname is his last defense mechanism, a fall-back meant to break away from the guy he left back home. The guy who can't buy kimchi in the store without ten pairs of sad eyes following him down the aisle. He could tell this kid his real name, he guesses, but since he's already been introduced as Hoya, he might as well just go on.

"Yeah, that's what everyone calls me."

"Intriguing."

He has no response to the quirked smile on Lee Sungjong's face, and continues on with their discussion. "So, Sungjong, what are you plans here in Seoul? I've heard you'd like some training in dance, but it's not necessary for a lot of companies unless you're going in hoping to be the main dancer. That's not the case, right? Maybe I should start by asking how you'd rate yourself as a dancer, and where you'd like to improve in your dancing."

Lee Sungjong seems to think this over for a moment, taking a deep sip of his tea in a neat, prim way that he belatedly realizes he even noticed in the first place. Why  _did_  he notice? Notice the way Sungjong reached for his cup, long fingers wrapping around the handle, the delicate way he drank from it, tongue peaking out to lick at the corner of his mouth. He sees people drink tea everyday. Weird.

"I do...like to dance. I used to dance with my friends all the time, actually. I just don't necessarily have the right kinds of skills, I guess. My style probably isn't as precise or sharp as the guys you see on stage."

"Would you mind showing me what you can do? I don't mean to put you on the spot, but if you can maybe illustrate where you're starting from..." he suggests, curious just how much of an effort this is going to be, especially with a bum knee. Jungho made it seem bad, really bad, and he doesn't know how much he can help if the kid can't keep a beat or stumbles over his own feet.

He explains to Sungjong how to hook up his smart phone to the sound system, and the kid scrolls through his phone for a few minutes, stopping and smiling at some potential song choices before making his final selection. The music starts, and it's one of the more popular songs right now. He's seen tons of people doing it, covers on the internet, personalities on variety shows, even the little girls Seungah teaches in the beginner's hip hop class on Tuesday nights. It's a catchy song with a iconic routine.

It's also a girl's song.

Sungjong strikes a pose in the middle of his living room, hips angled just like the main dancer's when she's on stage. Those hips sway, once, twice, then drop down to the floor before body rolling all the way back up.

The dance itself is the regular mix of just enough sexy to catch attention but not enough overtness to catch flack from the government. But Sungjong makes it so much more...risque? Appealing? Enchanting? It's such a weird contrast to him, that a kid like that, all gangly and growing and still young, can be so powerful.

Because no matter how small and delicate this Lee Sungjong appears, the look in his eyes is fierce and fiery. He may need some help (maybe a lot of help) in the dance department, fluid hips aside, but damn if this kid can't work it, can't prove that he's got what it takes to command a stage, even when it's just some dance instructor's living room. Sure, if he were sending this kid into an auditioning room, he would fight tooth and nail to prevent him from dancing to a song like this, but he's not going to discredit him for the choice, because Sungjong has commanded his attention completely.

Sungjong seems not to notice his intense observing, pushing his chest out before sliding down into a crouch, signaling the end of the dance.

"Damn, that was a lot better than I expected. Jungho made you sound way worse than you are!"

Sungjong doesn't seem to know what to say, swallowing once, and Howon belatedly kicks himself for how bad that came off. "Oh, thanks hyung. Yeah, I got quite a reputation back in school for my repertoire of girl dances. It's a pretty handy party trick."

Sungjong flops down beside him on the couch, stretching out long legs to the coffee table, and Howon picks up his tablet, pulling up some videos he thinks might be helpful for Sungjong. "You can obviously learn a routine well enough, as can be seen, but you're a little loose in some of your movements. See, look at this guy, see how he holds his arms? You want to be a little tighter, it'll make your moves look sharp and defined."

Sungjong leans over his shoulder, so close he can smell the clean soap scent of his skin, an underlying hint of sweat, and he makes no efforts to move away, even if they are practically strangers. He feels, well, comfortable, he guesses; really, this kid is going to be taking care of him for a few weeks, practically with him everyday, so it's probably good that they automatically click.

Sungjong makes him a quick dinner of ramyun before he leaves, thanking him profusely for the help, and flounces out the door, telling him to call if he needs anything. Sungjong's audition is in a few months, and they'll be working pretty much every day, therapy sessions allowing. He doesn't know what it is about this kid, but he finds himself thinking about him before he goes to bed, wondering about him, what he's like and where's he been. He thinks it's because he's so different from most of the other idols or idol-wannabes he knows, genuine and kind but not in a fake way, silly and dancing to girl groups but not girly or immature. The kid's an enigma, pure and simple.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks as his head hits the pillow,  _that's the only reason I'm even giving the kid a second thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howon's a liar liar pants on fire!
> 
> Finally Sungjong gets introduced like 14,000 words in like dood are you even a character in this??
> 
> This was actually horribly difficult to write, maybe because it's a pivotal moment but I just stared at this hating it forever and was like "welp, I don't think it's going to change" so if it sux........I'm sorry :/


	4. Chapter 4

"So, what you're saying is, is that you broke up with your boyfriend, watched someone else's match get revealed in public, had a bit of a meltdown, and tore your MCL, all in about 12 hours? You really are an overachiever."

Inguk always knows the exact way to phrase things. The exact way that will make his teeth clench as he tries to remain polite.

"More like 16, really," he grinds out, not missing Inguk's grin for a second. He supposes that's what he gets for continuing his counseling sessions for over three years. It's also probably what he gets for becoming close to Inguk, extending their friendship beyond just the office and into various bars, restaurants, house parties, and one lone beach on which they woke up with three strangers in various states of undress after a particularly raucous birthday party. Probably not the best thing ever for a psychologist-patient relationship (not to mention Inguk would get his ass handed to him, by his uncle no less, if anyone found out), but they've had some fun times, and he doesn't regret it. Most days.

The worst part about a psychologist being one of your best friends is the constant advice and nosy prodding. Or maybe it's just Inguk. It probably is just Inguk. But it's Inguk nonetheless, and he's been dreading this conversation for three weeks since it happened. Of course, Inguk's already heard the details. But now he's got his stupid psychologist hat on fully, and this is the part where he starts spewing off some doc talk that all sounds the same to him.

"It is my duty as someone who looks over your well-being and as someone who is your friend to ask what you think cued the meltdown. Of course, a lot of things that happened that day could certainly explain the occurrence, but you've also dealt with breakups, seeing people be matched, all that stuff before. Is there something else bothering you?"

Actually, that might be the worst part. Inguk can see right through him, 99% of the time, just like now. Of course he didn't tell Inguk about the visit to the fortune-teller. And he's not going to.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"That's fine, that's your prerogative. Telling me isn't necessary, but since it is obviously weighing on your mind and causing you stress, perhaps you should tell one person. Naturally, you should have a variety of people to talk to in any situation, a family member, a few close friends, and I don't have to be your sole confidant. Hm? Or have you already told someone else..."

Inguk's defintely leading him, nosily prodding at his relationships like always (especially those with his parents, good god does he harp on that), and he tries not to snap too much and look obvious in his apparent lack of trustworthy companions.

"No, Inguk. I haven't told my mom, or Seungah, or Sungjong, or my neighbor's cat I feed when he's running late. I just need to keep this to myself right now."

He only realizes what he's said when Inguk stares at him with those eyes he puts on when he's vastly intrigued, and he doesn't even know why he mentioned him to begin with. Too late to save himself, Inguk's already grabbing on to that slip-up, pouncing on it like a lion on its prey.

"Sungjong...the guy you've been training? The guy who's taking care of you, Jungho's nephew, right? Have you gotten close?"

His head moves side to side, as if to say 'ehhh', before he attempts to explain. "No. Or kind of, I mean yeah, but not really. I mean, I've seen him everyday, up to 8 or 9 hours a day, for the last three weeks, and he's even been helping me to physical therapy and other places I need to go since it's hard to do it alone right now. But like, I don't know, he's fine I guess..."

He even knows his answer is all over the place without having to look at Inguk's bemused face (Inguk has to be the least professional psychologist he's met,  _ever_ ), and he trails off at the end, not even knowing what he's saying at the moment. Sungjong's with him every day, often for the whole day, and of course you're going to get close with someone under those circumstances, due to proximity. That's the only reason he's even mentioning Sungjong. Yeah, it's just the exposure.

"Okay," Inguk starts. "So that's it then? There's nothing else-"

"No! There's nothing else between us! He's just some kid who I'm helping and he's helping me. That's all."

Inguk stares at him blankly for a moment, pen tapping his bottom lip, and, wow, why the fuck did he answer like that? He never snaps like that, ever. That probably looked very suspect. Okay, not probably. That was totally, a hundred percent obvious.

"Well, hm, I was just saying 'there's nothing else you want to discuss, right?' because it's been an hour and our time's up, but I'm willing to extend if you explain that...reply for me," Inguk says, waving his hand at 'reply' like he's pointing out he's being generous in his labeling.

Howon stands up, fixing his coat in an attempt to look anywhere but Inguk's face, and he mumbles off his goodbyes, some excuse like "errands" thrown out, and Inguk lets him go without a fight. They both know Inguk's going to get it out of him eventually, and he's sure Inguk is consoling himself with that fact. Him, on the other hand...

It's not like he likes to be so secretive. His life is full of secrets, things he keeps from his parents, things he keeps from Seungah. Hell, he's been running a 3-year story about his fake match he's supposed to have that all the guys in Triumph and Jungho and pretty much everyone he knows in Seoul completely believes. He hates it, the fear of slipping up, the  _actual_ slipping up, the contrived details. But this, this is different.

And really, how can he even tell Inguk about this, when he doesn't know what's going on himself?

* * *

At first, he didn't even notice. He was still caught up with all these thoughts of Jihoon and fortune-tellers and doctor appointments and Seungah's struggles that he just didn't have the mental space to dedicate to another person. He could turn on Sungjong's needs when he needed to, get into that trainer mode and think about dance routines and posture tips and rhythm lessons, but generally speaking, he turned it off when they were done.

But then, it kind of bled over. Sungjong went from 'the guy he helped learn to dance' to 'the guy who was nice enough to go all the way to the grocery store by himself because he still had a bum knee' or 'the guy who bought him a 'get well soon' card that made him laugh even though it was totally unnecessary and perhaps a little belated'.

They often take breaks during sessions, Sungjong making snacks or meals for them to enjoy, and they have plenty of time to talk, about anything and everything. Howon learns they are very different, in many ways, but it somehow works; they still have a good time together. He learns Sungjong is very reserved, but somehow manages to look inviting and warm on the outside when he wants. He doesn't complain, even when he gets mad enough for Howon to see, and Howon admires his fortitude.

That is, until he learns how Sungjong deals with the stress.

"So you're saying that...you have a teddy bear, that you beat up?"

He can't help from laughing, so hard he clutches his stomach against the pain, and Sungjong reddens in embarrassment (or from the three bottles of soju they've split between them, it's 1 am and they've been talking for hours). The weirdest part is is that he can totally imagine it, imagine him grabbing the bear by it's bow and slapping it across the nose again and again.

"Well, I mean, you haven't met my singing instructor!" Sungjong whines, pushing at a rolling Howon with his foot. "He's so pretentious, it's mind-numbing. He makes me practice with his own songs he wrote, and then he complains I can't sing them right! Well, yeah, I came to you to learn, and I've only been here a week and a half. So frustrating!"

Sungjong breaks into an impression, making him choke with laughter until tears are streaming down his face, and he can barely hear the high-pitched reenactments (or, more likely, embellishments) coming from Sungjong of "you're hopeless kid!" and "my name is Kim Sunggyu and I think I know everything." Sungjong's surprising him everyday, a wonderful mix of strong and goofy and hard-working and attentive, and he can admit he's having actual fun with him.

Admitting he's having fun is one thing, a very simple one thing. Admitting that he thinks about Sungjong before he goes to bed, when he wakes up in the morning, at random moments during the day when he sees something he thinks Sungjong would find funny, well, that's a whole different story. Sure, he cares about his well-being, wants him to succeed and all that, by it doesn't make sense he's wondering if he ate well today, if he had fun last night with his friend who goes to Yonsei, if he should buy some of those cookies Sungjong mentioned so he has them on hand when he wants a snack.

And then other people start commenting. Two weeks after they begin, they finally head down to Jungho's studio, his knee sufficiently better to the point where walking around is doable, and the lessons take over there. Jungho and Seungah both sit in, whenever they have free time, adding new perspectives to crafting Sungjong's technique.

Jungho sits down beside him while they watch Sungjong try to keep up with the routine a group of the backup dancers taught him, managing to hold his own quite well, and Jungho compliments him on his work so far.

"It seems like you've found yourself a puppy," he says, poking him in the side playfully.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, look at him. I'm not sure if you know, but he's the oldest at home. Not to say he's the harshest hyung ever, but he certainly doesn't take much attitude from anyone. Very headstrong, but not in a rude way necessarily. But with you, ha, he follows you around like a duckling who's just hatched. I mean, he really listens to you, doesn't roll his eyes when you tell him to fix something or even stomp his foot. I've never seen him do that. I wish he treated me like that!"

"Oh?" What does he even say in response to that? He doesn't even know how that makes him feel. Of course he's gotten the vibe that Sungjong doesn't mess around, doesn't let people necessarily walk all over him, but is it true that Sungjong really treats him differently?

Seungah's next, cleaning up the practice room with him as Jungho and Sungjong head home for the night. He'd noticed her stares earlier when he had helped Sungjong with his positioning, moving behind him to bend his elbow properly and move his hips into the right position, but that was totally just him helping Sungjong out (even if he could have just explained the right way, he supposes).

"So," she finally says when they're alone, door closed behind the last dancer to leave, "am I going to have to share from now on?"

Her comment makes him tense up, angry at the implication, and he's shocked by his response. He never gets defensive like this, wanting to yell at Seungah "no one has any claim on me", but he bites the inside of his cheek. Acting like that...it's not like Sungjong is his match or anything. Why would he get so up-in-arms about that?

"I don't know what you're talking about," he finally says, brushing off her teasing. The relationship between him and Sungjong is professional, and that's the long and short of it. Plenty of people at work enjoy spending time together, work well together, and that is all this is a case of.

"Oh, okay, mister. I mean, I know you never wear your glasses, but you can't be that blind to miss it, can you? You like him! He likes you!"

He chokes on his own saliva, spit caught in his throat as she wiggles her eyebrows at him, and he's flabbergasted. She thinks Sungjong likes him?

"Noona, please," he mumbles, "don't make jokes like that."

"I'm not joking! Look at you two. 'Oh, Sungjong-ah, your leg should be like this, no, slide it out, yes yes, perfffeeeeccttttt, great job!' 'Sungjong, your body is really sexy! Companies are going to go crazy over you!' When have you ever,  **ever**  said that to another dancer? Aren't you the kind of guy that's all brusque demands and paltry compliments? And then him, him all hanging off every word of yours, all 'yes, hyung' and 'is that right, hyung?' and 'Howon hyung, you are the best dancer I've ever seen," she mimics, imitating vomiting noises as she mocks the both of them.

Okay, yes, he is a bit more vocal in his praise of Sungjong. But, he reminds her, Sungjong is not a dancer by background, and the moves and routines and natural grace of dancer's bodies doesn't come as easy to him as those who pursue dance as their passion. He only goes so far so that Sungjong doesn't lose any steam, and continues to due his best before his audition in 3 months.

"Whatever you say, Howon. All I'm saying is, that's not just professionalism to the extreme. That's flirting, and you don't even know his situation. You're playing with fire."

"You didn't know my story when I came here and you threw yourself at me, no?"

It's a low blow, but he's angry. Who is she to tell him to be careful (he knows exactly who she is to say that). He knows she's being protective, wanting to shield him liking someone who's going to end up meeting their match and leaving him behind, but she's being presumptive herself. There's nothing between him and Sungjong, just fun, and now she's lecturing him about his life. When she doesn't even know.

That doesn't mean he doesn't immediately regret it, however. She doesn't know because he hasn't told her. She's going off the lies he's made up, using only information she thinks is true to protect him, and the worst part is, she doesn't even get angry at his accusation. She takes his words in, eyes downcast in shame, and god, why does he have to be such an asshole sometimes?

"You're right. I didn't- I'm sorry I even bothered you in the first place, back then. I just...I mean you were so much like him, I- I'm sorry Howon."

He moves toward her, trying to catch her hand, but she flits past him, not even saying goodbye, and she's out the door before he can ever start to apologize.

The conversation weighs on him, as he travels home, while he's laying in bed, the next day at practice with Sungjong, even after he and Seungah apologize, both agreeing they went too far. It's true, that Sungjong is a fun, no, comfortable person to be with, a person he can laugh with and have serious talks with and even sit in silence, watch a movie or just daydream with, like they've done so many times back at his place while they were taking a breather, and isn't it crazy he feels this way after a month? Sure, that's how he was with all his best friends, back in high school when he'd meet someone and they'd hit it off immediately and be spending the night over at each other's house that same weekend.

That was before his isolation, however, before he cut off other people, and it hits him Sungjong is the first person he's actively enjoyed wasting time with since he got to Seoul. Not that he doesn't like Seungah, or Inguk, or the Triumph guys or Jungho, but he has reservations about all of them, limits on the time he can spend with them before he needs to fall back and recharge alone. But Sungjong - he's spent 8, 10, even 12 hours with him, straight, and every time Sungjong's had to leave, he's always looked at his watch, surprised by how quickly time has passed. And that, he's sure, has never happened to him before.

Their concerns don't stop him. Or maybe he can't stop himself. Even with Inguk breathing down his neck, Jungho's teasing, Seungah's side-eyed glances he doesn't miss, he doesn't curtail his behavior. If anything, Sungjong becomes part of his group, hanging out with the Triumph guys, exploring Hongdae with him on Saturday nights, having philosophical talks about books and religion and politics at his kitchen table over coffee on late Sunday afternoons. They both maintain their schedules, he with his physical therapy, his meetings with Inguk, practices with Triumph as they work on their follow up stage, Sungjong with his own vocal lessons and acting lessons. But the moment he finishes one thing, his phone is already in his hand, "what are you doing?" sent to Sungjong in a second, and the night goes from there, the streets of Seoul beneath their feet as they go on some new adventure.

* * *

The moment he realizes what's going on, it nearly takes his breath away. Mostly because he chokes on his drink.

Sungjong is trying to deflect Inguk's playful pestering, dodging questions about his plans as an idol, how he's going to deal with being ordered around, potentially being the youngest in his group, and he and Seungah look on as Sungjong whines at him, much to Inguk's amusement.

"Psh, look at you now! I'm just joking and you're all 'hyung, stop'. Are you sure you're cut out for this?" Inguk prods, pinching Sungjong's cheek, and the look Sungjong shoots him, a desperate call for help, makes his insides turn to mush.

He's never gotten butterflies, never felt his stomach leap, especially not just from one look. And while the very thought should be scary, it's not; it's amazing, wonderful, perfect. He can feel the blood surging through his veins, his heart racing a million miles a minute, feel his cheeks redden when Sungjong looks at him with that smile of his on his face. He's totally, completely, head-over-heels in like with Lee Sungjong, and he chokes at the realization.

All three of them turn to him, Seungah slapping his back to help him out, and Sungjong immediately reaches over in concern, wiping his mouth as he tsks. If it were anyone else, he would have slapped their hands away, because he's a man, not a child, but Sungjong long fingers on his face make his blood rush all over again, and he lets Sungjong fuss over him.

He doesn't fail to notice Seungah's shock and Inguk's knowing grin, but he does his best not to acknowledge either of them; he's going to get it from both of them later anyways, so best to just ignore it now. Because all he wants to do is look at Sungjong, drink him in like he's the beer he's rolling between two hands, stare at him all night until he learns every line of his face, the curve of his lips and the swell of his cheeks.

Sungjong's fingers brush over his bottom lip, wiping away the last drops of beer, and he playfully nips at his fingers, not caring about Seungah or Inguk's reactions (they apparently knew, anyway). Sungjong jerks back, affronted, and slaps him across the shoulder, a sly grin on his face.

"Hey, watch it, hyung! I was just trying to help you out."

Inguk keels over, beating the table in laughter. "This kid speaks formally," he snickers, waving an arm in Sungjong's direction, "and yet what he says and does is so  _commanding_. His future bandmates better learn early not to cross him!"

Sungjong seems to take this as a compliment, shrugging innocently as Howon rubs his raw shoulder, certain he's going to have a bruise tomorrow, and he notices Seungah is watching them all silently, eyeing them captiously and nursing her beer. If he didn't know any better (and he does), he'd almost think Seungah hated Sungjong. In a way, he'd prefer that, over her misinformed distrust. If Seungah didn't like Sungjong for Sungjong, at least he wouldn't feel guilty, as bad as that is to admit to himself.

Seungah's silence, so abnormal compared to her usual playfulness, worries him for the better part of an hour. They've still been a bit off since their fight, but she accepted his invite to hang out with Inguk and Sungjong willingly, and he wonders if maybe something with Joonmoon happened, before thinking better of it. She wouldn't surround herself with people who didn't know the situation if that were the case; no, something else is weighing on her, and he almost texts her to ask if she's okay when she starts playing a different sort of twenty questions with Sungjong.

They go through the normal questions, discussing Sungjong's hometown and family and friends, some things he knew and some things he didn't. He doesn't think anything of her questioning, surmising it's just her way of getting to know Sungjong better for his part, and he appreciates the effort.

At least, until she crosses the line.

"So, have you met your match yet? What's their name?"

Of course, it's socially acceptable to ask such questions, just, you know, when you've known someone for a long time and you're both pretty close. He doesn't know exactly what she's doing, but he can guess she's trying to prove a point to him, about Sungjong's off-limits status, and Inguk seems to also pick up on this, never one to miss basically anything, and he shoots him a concerned glance out of the corner of his eye.

Sungjong looks polite outwardly, but Howon can tell he's unhappy at her pushiness, senior or not, and for some reason, that makes him even madder. If she wants to screw with him, that's fine. But messing with Sungjong? That's unacceptable. _What the hell is she trying to do?_

"I, uhm, no, I have not," Sungjong finally drags out, the mood totally dead in the room. He nods once, as if to signal he's done, and they all sit there for a moment, none of them knowing what to say.

"What's their name? Maybe one of us knows them."

Howon doesn't even have the power to be mad, as confused as he is. Is this really the same Seungah he's known for the last three years? The same girl who hugged him tight when he told her his "story" about meeting his match and learning they were matched to someone else? Is this the same girl who brought him juice when he had the stomach flu, and watched over him all night? He gets her protectiveness, but this isn't concern anymore; this is straight up sabotage.

Inguk tries to referee, psychologist definitely showing through, and he reaches out to Sungjong, explaining Seungah's just being a bit intense like always and he doesn't have to answer that, but Sungjong waves him off, determined anger painting his face.

"Well, noona, I was taught not to reveal my match until I met them directly. You see, both of my parents are mismatches, so they are very serious about me waiting until the most appropriate moment to reveal any names."

Inguk and Seungah have identical expressions, and he's sure his isn't that far off. That tidbit is a bombshell. Mismatched parents are more likely to produce children who are also mismatches, and that means...

No. No. He's sick, sick for feeling some excitement over this. How fucking twisted does he have to be to grab on to that fact with some sense of hope, that, maybe, if it doesn't work out with whoever is on Sungjong's letter, he could be there, like a fall-back-

No. That's never going to happen. Isn't that what the fortune-teller said? Unless he probably goes out and finds the person who's on Sungjong's letter and, what, kills them or something, Sungjong is going to end up with the person he deserves and he'll go on with his life, because he has to "work" for everything he gets, right?

The party is definitely over, Inguk practically dragging Seungah out, but Sungjong stays in his seat, unmoving. He doesn't want to tell him to leave, but he doesn't want him to stay either. His presence is a temptation, a forbidden fruit he's not supposed to have but so desperately wants, and the sickening battle in his mind between wanting to possess and just looking, not touching wages on. He doesn't deserve Sungjong, doesn't deserve someone he wishes would be mismatched, doesn't deserve someone he basically just fantasized killing someone over. But Sungjong looks like an angel almost, sitting there with a clench shut jaw that highlights all his best features, and he wonders for a moment that, if Sungjong's an angel, could he save him, maybe?

"I'm sorry, she usually isn't-" he tries to say, apologizing even though it's not his fault, but Sungjong holds a hand up.

"Don't. Don't apologize for someone else's actions."

So he sits, awkwardly flip-flopping between anger and disgust and something like pity for Sungjong, before Sungjong speaks again, much later.

"My parents...they make it work. I'm very proud of them, you know? I would say they even love each other, obviously not like that, but enough. Enough to where my brother and I were raised in a good home, with two loving parents, and we never knew the difference. I don't like telling people, because of course, they think what everyone else thinks: I'm next. And it's true, I might be. Statistically speaking, I probably will be like them. And do I want that? No. But if that's my life, it's my life. It's shit sometimes, because I don't look forward to meeting my match, if I ever meet them, and I know I'm supposed to be happy about it. But I'm not. I'm just going to live my life right now, and have fun, and not care about that shit right now."

Sometimes, he's forgotten that Sungjong is only 19, freshly in the new world, still young and unexperienced in life and love and heartbreak. It's so easy to say you don't care, when you haven't fallen over the precipice, because once you start down, you gain speed much faster than you can handle. But he doesn't correct Sungjong's line of thought; if anything, he wants to enjoy the view with Sungjong for as long as he can.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm-" he begins, wanting in some way to pull the burden off of Sungjong, to show him he's not looking at him like a freak, because he understands it well, but Sungjong interrupts him.

"I know, hyung."

"Oh. How?"

"Jungho. You don't mind, do you? He told me a lot about everyone who works at the studio, so I'd understand everyone's story," Sungjong explains, fiddling with a beer cap. "That's why I got mad, but I'll forgive Seungah. Eventually. I know where's she coming from; I've seen it before. Shit, I've lived it before. It's so easy to let your own bitterness affect other people, especially with something like that."

"Oh." It feels stupid to just say that, a hollow word with no meaning, but they both seem done with conversation anyway, and he doesn't push it anymore.

Sungjong grabs the glasses from the table, walking over to the sink to dump them in, and he grabs the empty side dishes, following Sungjong along. They tidy up the kitchen in relative silence, handing each other a clean dish to dry or put up without saying a word, and Sungjong glances at the clock before turning towards him.

"I don't think my bus is running anymore. Do you mind if I stay here tonight?"

The self-preservation part of his mind screams no at an alarmingly high pitch, but it doesn't convey to his mouth well; he's saying sure almost immediately. He climbs up the stairs, meaning to grab an extra blanket from his linen closet for Sungjong to use on the couch, but Sungjong follows him up, flopping down on his bed when he turns his back.

"Your bed is so comfy," Sungjong nearly purrs, and by the time he turns around, Sungjong's already shimmying out of his pants, chucking them off the end of the bed.

Any thoughts of putting Sungjong on the couch fly out the window, and he tries his best not to stare at the creamy skin of Sungjong's thighs as Sungjong stretches out over his duvet, snuggling into his pillow. Of course, it's totally normal for two guys to share a bed, and he's already a bit too far in now to help it, but he feels an overwhelming sense of something akin to dread as he walks over to the bed. His bed is certainly big enough for the two of them, but he's going to sense Sungjong all night, feel his body heat, smell his shampoo, hear his breathing. All damn night. God dammit.

He stands awkwardly at the edge of the bed, hands flittering at the waist of his shorts, unsure whether he should go to the bathroom and change, or not. Usually he only sleeps in his underwear, but he's debating just not changing; somehow, wearing just that would almost be too intimate, right? Or is he overthinking this? Shit.

He debates back and forth internally, mentally adding in insults about being stupid and letting Sungjong stay, and not correcting Sungjong about where he should sleep, when Sungjong clears his throat, quite loudly.

"Are you talking to yourself?"

 _Shit_. Was he?

"Uhm, sorry, I was just thinking about some...stuff, I forgot to, well, you see-" he tries to cover with, looking stupider by the second, and Sungjong just rudely rolls his eyes, patting the bed beside him.

"Can we sleep now? I'm really tired."

And so he slips in, under the covers, accidentally kicking Sungjong in the shins, causing Sungjong to knee him, quite painfully, in response, and he stiffens up like a board on his side, desperately trying to maintain distance between himself and Sungjong.

Sungjong falls asleep pretty quickly, head rolling towards him, and he doesn't know how long he studies that face, the curve of his eyelashes on his cheeks, the way his nose flares slightly when he takes a deep breath. He knows everyone assumes the same things about Sungjong, the very things he assumed on first sight, that Sungjong is all fragile and gentle, but he can't help but wonder how much he doesn't know about Sungjong, how much he hides underneath that picture perfect face. He would have never guessed in a million years Sungjong came from a mismatched home, that he almost carelessly refuses to look to the future because of what? Bitterness? Fear? There's still so much he doesn't know about Sungjong yet.

But he wants to learn it all, while he can.

* * *

He wakes up just before dawn, gray streaks of light striped across his bed. Dawn comes early, the days long in the middle of summer, and he rolls over, intending to sleep a few more hours while he can. Sungjong's there beside him, and he looks over to check on him, maybe to assure he's still breathing, maybe to see if he's still sleeping peacefully, and something potent and heavy streaks through him when he takes in the sight.

He's woken up to many faces, some under some quite interesting circumstances, but he's never felt so...content, to have someone there beside him, not to wake up and fuck like usual, but just someone he can appreciate, for them, and not on some ulterior motive on his part. It's mind-boggling, way too confusing for 5:14 am, and some hazy thought moves to the front of his mind, something like  _it's like a missing puzzle piece being found._

It freaks him the fuck out.

Sungjong's introduction into his life has changed everything. For the first time, he wonders if his lack of a letter means not that he can't love, but that he has to find that person himself, without the guide. The fortune-teller did say it was possible, to have  _something_. Still, it's a terrifying concept, and it weighs on his mind all day, long after Sungjong wakes up, eats cereal with him clad only in underwear, and goes about his day.

It's not that he's afraid to love. If anything, that's what he want most in life, has wanted the most for the years. And whatever he feels for Sungjong, it can't be ignored. But it's still so risky; he can try for what he wants, work long and hard to put himself in the right places at the right times, but how can he compete with the fates that rule everyone else he meets, particularly Sungjong's own future? The contest doesn't seem fair.

Confused and unsure of how he should go forward, Howon does what any grown ass man would do in this situation: he calls his mom.

* * *

When he calls his house, his dad answers, because apparently he can never catch a break.

"Appa, is umma around?"

"Are you not going to even ask how I am? What kind of child doesn't even ask about their own father's well-being?"

 _A child that doesn't care_ , he thinks to himself, sneering.

Okay, even he knows that's a lie. He does care. Even being nearly 23 years old, he still desperately wants daddy's approval, despite knowing he's not going to get it. Maybe if he were an engineer, or a accountant, or lawyer, not to mention not being a complete fucking anomaly in the world, maybe then he'd be enough, just like his older brother. But that's a different worry for a different day.

"Abeoji, I'm sorry- " he belatedly tries to add, but he can already hear the phone rustling, and then his mom is there.

"Son, what did you say? I thought we talked about this..."

He endures his mom's lecture for the umpteenth time, promising to make more of an effort with his father, just like he always does. His mother appeased for the moment, he can finally get into what he wanted to talk about.

"Umma, I met someone."

His mom is quiet for a moment, and he can't tell if the silence is from profound shock or happiness.

"Oh? Are they a soulless, or a mismatch?"

_Ah, the question of the century._

"Neither...or maybe. I don't know! We haven't ever talked about our matches, or, er, lack of matches. I only know is that he hasn't met his person yet, apparently, so I guess it's...to be determined?"

His mom is quiet again, and it scares him. He wants her to fix it, to tell him everything will be fine and he'll be happy and get the life he deserves. Isn't that what moms are supposed to do?

"Howon, my son...don't give your heart away to someone who won't be able to accept it. I hate to tell you what to do, but don't love this person if you're just going to lose them. You've already- already gone through so much and I don't want to see you hurt more. I think you should stick with one of those groups for those...who aren't perfect matches. That is the safest path."

It makes him angry. Angry she isn't giving him the go ahead to love Sungjong, to kiss him and hold him and breathe him in while he can. Angry that she's advising him what to do (even if he asked), when she herself is a perfect match and she got her happy ending after all and she has no idea what any of this feels like. Angry that she's right - whatever he's feeling for Sungjong, it's only going to come back to destroy him when Sungjong meets his own destiny.

He's too angry and bitter and just too tired to even debate this now, and he chokes out some half-assed agreement in the hopes of ending the call so maybe he can go drink a whole case of beers and hide with his head under his pillow for the rest of the night. His mom's voice sounds like she totally sees right through it, but she pretends she doesn't notice, but that's just how it is between them, between him and his whole family.

"Look umma, I gotta go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Howon..." she begins, obviously wanting to say something more, but she apparently changes her mind. "I love you, and I want what's best for you, you know that, right? Please do what's best for yourself."

And maybe, if he knew what was actually best for himself, he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should tag this fic as angst, goodness gracious


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have just dedicated a chapter to 6,000 words of pwp errrrrrrrrr hm

It takes a grand total of about 10 seconds for Howon to say 'screw it' and throw caution to the wind. No one, not Inguk, not his mom, not Seungah, can put themselves in his shoes. He's the one who has to live his life, make his own decisions, and suffer the consequences, and a few sleepless nights have led him to believe Sungjong is worth it, whatever happens. Now he's only left with seeing if Sungjong is on board.

Of course, he has a million opportunities to say something. When he and Sungjong meet up to eat lunch after Sungjong's morning vocal lessons. After dance lessons, when it's just him and Sungjong in the practice room before Sungjong goes home. It'd be so easy to say "hey, what are you doing tonight?" or "do you want to come over to my place?" or "are you maybe as crazy about me as I am about you?" If anything that Jungho or Seungah said has any grain of truth, Sungjong definitely acts differently with him, and yet...

It's true that Sungjong is much warmer to him than others, even his high school friends. Yes, Sungjong does laugh at his jokes, even when they aren't funny. And, yes, it's true that Sungjong rolls his eyes and slaps him playfully when he's being particularly risque. But that doesn't mean he's not reading into it, only seeing what he wants to. Maybe Sungjong is just overly appreciative, seeing as Howon was his first real friend in the city. Maybe Sungjong is like that with his other close friends in Gwangju, and he's only seen him with his less familiar friends here in the city. Every possibility, every potential outcome, washes out his hope, and he finds himself wishing Sungjong goodbye instead of saying "let's go somewhere together" at the end of the day.

He's always viewed himself as a man, a man who wasn't afraid to speak his mind or chase his dreams, but Sungjong is so different. It'd be so easy to mess up, to say one wrong thing, or come off too strong, push Sungjong away, and the idea is terrifying to him. He's already inevitably bound to lose him, and any moment that's taken away before that time is like a day of his life being erased. He can't screw this up, and if that means being a coward and enjoying stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, or sitting close enough on the couch to smell the clean laundry and shampoo scent of Sungjong that's become so dear to him, then he'll accept it. His bravado wanes, worst-case scenarios overtaking his mind, and his big plans of wild proposals of love begin to fade.

But that doesn't stop the invasive thoughts, the dreams that seem so real and haunt him long after he wakes up. Sungjong is imprinted on his heart, a shadowy specter that swims through his mind any time he lets his guard down, and for the first time in his life, Lee Howon wonders if maybe love is way more challenging than he had imagined it to be.

* * *

At the end of the day, Howon follows the coward's path. Better safe than sorry, and watching Sungjong grow and laugh and just enjoy life is consolation enough, or so he tries to convince himself. Still, life never goes to plan for him anyways, but this time, it works out. Trust Sungjong to always get his way.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?" Sungjong asks as they close up the studio for the night, shutting down the equipment they had been using to go over Sungjong's audition routine (which, luckily, after much persuasion from him, is not a girl's group song). The question is so ordinary for them, for anyone, but Sungjong's voice is full of something, something almost mischievous.

"I don't know, same old I guess," Howon replies, still fiddling with the sound system. "Got something in mind?"

Sungjong titters a bit, as if it's obvious, but Howon doesn't give in to his playing around. Whatever he wants to say, he can go on ahead or let it go.

"When are we going to talk about this?"

_About...this? This, like, what 'this'? What is **this**?_

"This? Like your routine? We can talk about that anytime, you know that..."

Sungjong sighs, overly dramatic, and there's the usual eye roll, the eye roll that says 'how can a hyung be so stupid?' Usually, the overt disrespect from someone younger would irk him, but Sungjong always does it playfully, and every critical look and impolite noise he makes at his comments is made up for by the general care Sungjong provides him the rest of the time. Sungjong never complains about cooking all the meat when they eat, always follows his directions when they are at practice, and just the general little things, the little snacks he brings in for them when they have a long day, the card he makes when Howon finishes his last physical therapy session. All the things that add up to remind him why he fell for Sungjong in the first place. Lee Sungjong is an enigma, for sure, but he likes him that way.

"Don't be silly, hyung.  _This_ ," Sungjong gesticulates, hand waving between the two of them as he laughs, eyes crinkling.

_This? Like, wait, this, like them? But that would mean..._

Jungho pops his head in, asking Sungjong if he's ready to head out, and he doesn't have a chance to say anything more before Sungjong hops off the speaker he was sitting on, hand fluttering over his shoulder. He know he probably looks stupid, mouth half-open as he watches them go, and Sungjong hesitates a moment in the door, winking in his direction with that cat-like smile of his before finally disappearing.

He tries not to think too much into it, not wanting to get his hopes up, but there's only so many things that can mean. Not even things, but thing. Singular, not plural, solitary and straightforward and only thing. He types out a million texts, worded in every which way he can imagine, so tempted to ask for a clarification, an explanation to that scene, before eventually tossing his phone on the end of his bed, flopping face first into the pillows. Whatever Sungjong's planning, he's enjoying dragging him down this path basically blindfolded, and he might as well just go along quietly.

* * *

He doesn't see Sungjong the next day, one of the rare moments where their schedules don't overlap, and he finds himself distracted all day as he goes to a final doctor's appointment, running errands throughout town, and dropping in to help Jungho with some new group's lesson for the day. When he finally gets home, he barely has time to shower and throw on some clothes before Sungjong is at his door.

The feeling between them is completely charged as soon as Sungjong even steps in his living room. They've been together so many times now, so often that they know each other's quirks and likes and dislikes and can practically finish each other's sentences, but now, the air is totally different. Howon doesn't feel nervous, not really, but he still finds his tongue heavy in his mouth, like any words he might want to say will only come out through a tedious effort on his part. It feels almost like a first date, like he's seeing Sungjong for the first time, and while Sungjong has never been the most verbose person ever, even he seems impatient at the silence, staring straight at Howon as if it were up to him to strike up the conversation.

"So..."

"So?"

There's that smile of Sungjong's again, that smile that seems to taunt him, hinting "I know something that you don't." Well, that is the case, isn't it? Sungjong's sitting here, on his couch, legs stretched out comfortably, but there's some deeper purpose, some hesitancy he's just hiding behind his smile. If he didn't know better, and he does, he wouldn't even be able to see it; but he's spent a lot of time watching Sungjong, watching him closely, and he can see the nervous shift of his eyes, the way he's looking everywhere but his face, as if he's afraid what he'll see. The smile doesn't waver, Cheshire cat look-alike in full force tonight, but he's afraid, or worried, and he can't hide that from Howon.

"What was, or, uhm, is...this?"

He figures he might as well get Sungjong to explain why he's here in his own words; that way, he doesn't stupidly come off with the wrong idea, professing his love when Sungjong wanted to talk about his audition or his new haircut or the weather or whatever. The idea that Sungjong would say anything, any sort of inclination he returns even an ounce of the feeling he has for him makes his stomach flutter in the most exciting way, but there's still no guarantee that'll happen, Sungjong's restless behavior aside. He's going to hear the words come out of Sungjong's very own mouth before he goes ahead.

"Hyung," Sungjong says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "don't be dense."

Oh, okay. Great. Super helpful.

"You know, for a love confession, I was expecting a little bit more feeling, really," he tries to deadpan. Sungjong looks down at his lap, obviously embarrassed, and shit, why does he always have to put his foot in his goddamn mouth?

"Sungjong, I-"

"It's not exactly easy, okay? It's not like I've done this before. I mean, love and affection are such complicated things, right? Sorry if I'm not my most poetic at the moment."

The air is stifling around him, the white noise of his AC and the fridge deafening in the background. He can hear the clock on his desk tick-tock, hear his heart beat in his chest like a volley of cannons going off, and he can't do anything to stop it. He wants to reach over, grab Sungjong's hand and pull him in and apologize a million times, but Sungjong might as well be in another galaxy, as pulled back he is. He gambled the moment, and lost, and he doesn't know how to get it back.

"You know, my family has this story that, when I was a little kid, I swore up and down that I'd never fall in love, and that I'd rather die than do so."

Sungjong doesn't reply, but his head tilts, as if he's silently saying "go on", and, well, even if he babbles, it's still better than the silence.

"My mom said that when you love someone, you give them your heart. Well, apparently I took that literally, and it terrified me. So I told her I wouldn't fall in love. But then, to really seal the deal, I got protective of my chest I guess, and my mom said I suddenly would fight her when she was trying to change me or give me a bath. It went on for like a week, and only my big brother could change my clothes. Turns out, I thought my mom would take my heart because I loved her, so I stayed away."

Sungjong smiles, mouth half-quirked like he's fighting it. "Cute. Did you not love your brother then?"

"I was four. This was right around the time he pushed me off my tricycle, see this scar, that's where I got it from. Needless to say, the relations of the Lee brothers were pretty icy for a while."

"That's nothing. The first time my brother tried to test his position as a dongsaeng...I, ha, I pushed him into a wall. I think I was about 12, he must have been 9 or so. Anyway, my parents weren't home yet, and I told him to wash the dishes, and he told me I should do it. My parents expected them to be done by the time they got home, but he refused, and we ended up fighting. Usually I wasn't so mean, but I was just really frustrated, so I pushed him, right into the wall in our living room, and it cracked it. Halfway up the wall, too. I didn't even notice it, because I was so concentrated on trying to get him to promise not to tell my parents I hurt him. Oh man, I promised him everything, I promised to do the dishes, to go buy him snacks from the corner store. But yeah, my parents definitely noticed the huge crack in the wall. And we both ended up paying for that."

"I had moments like that, too. With my younger brother. He's five years younger than me, and he used to follow me around all the time, because he thought I was like the coolest thing ever. But, you know, by the time I was in middle school, he was just a little baby to me still, and I didn't want him to follow my friends and I around, so I used to sneak out to ditch him. Now, sometimes I wish I could go back. My older brother and I are gone, and it's just him, with no brother around to be watch him finish growing up."

"Hm, I'm sure he's fine. I mean, isn't that the burden of youngest children? You spend your days following your siblings around, wanting to be like them, and then they go off, and your still just a kid, even if you're in high school. Sure, youngest siblings get a lot of crap about being the most spoiled and what not, but I think they must be pretty tough, to endure being left behind. It probably makes them grow up faster, to learn to spread their wings and do things by themselves."

"I guess I never thought of it like that..."

The conversation lulls for a minute, until Sungjong remembers this story about his cousin, which reminds him of this vacation he took with his family, and he's barely aware of the time passing as the conversation twists and turns from family to politics to preferred post-apocalyptic scenarios.

"You'd really prefer mass epidemic over a massive, worldwide natural disaster? Why?"

"It's easier. Natural disasters affect eco-systems, so if you survived, your means of continuation of life would be jeopardized. But in mass epidemics, well, if you die, you die. If you live, everything is pretty much the same, particularly if it's only a human-borne illness. Even if it's not, you can still rely on a diet of vegetables and plants and what not. Water should be fine too, so long as you make sure to sanitize it, just to be safe."

"Yeah, but what about all the human-made equipment that needs to be maintained so it doesn't destroy us all? Like, hm, everyone's dying, I'm pretty sure the manager at the nuclear power plant's first idea is 'hey, lemme go shut this down for forever just in case myself and all my scientist buddies die and no one knows what to do when the core goes into meltdown'. So then you have to worry about nuclear fallout."

"True, but a lot of those systems have failsafes to keep it stabilized in those situations."

"Not indefinitely."

"Probably long enough for you to live you life. I mean, your odds of dying are certainly raised, so you should just be happy with your extended ten years, not looking to make it to ninety. Or just off yourself right then, it's not like it would matter anymore. Then only your corpse will have to worry about the radiation."

"God, that's nihilistic. How often do you think of shit like this? Why are we even talking about this?"

"I think it started when you were talking about how you hate hand sanitizer because it makes germs even more resistant. And I watch a lot of horror movies."

"Oh, right."

A quick glance at his phone tells him it's already 1:35 am, and yet he feels completely awake. It certainly hasn't seemed like three hours have passed with them on this couch, legs stretching and moving and rearranging until they're twisted around each other in the middle, Sungjong's left foot slid under his thigh and his left knee crossed over Sungjong's right shin. It's comfortable, but he's hungry, and he sits up, untangling legs.

"Let's make dinner."

"Now?"

"Is there any better time?"

* * *

Sungjong's cooked for him a million times, all sorts of things, but this time he goes all out, creating the most jumbled of feasts that seemingly only makes sense at 2 in the morning. He usually doesn't eat french toast and curry and ramen on the same plate, topped off with fruit salad and potato chips, but it just works, he and Sungjong sharing bowls and chopsticks and fighting over pieces of shrimp and the last cube of watermelon.

When they finally make it back to the couch, near groaning in fullness, he flops down first, and Sungjong climbs between his legs, resting his head on his chest. On one hand, it's a bit strange to him that neither of them said anything, and that Sungjong just climbed right on, but yet, it almost seems better that way; Sungjong tends to just do what he wants without a whole lot of fuss, and it feels natural, to have him lay there. It feels natural to bring his hand up, ruffle the silky strands of hair, run his hand down Sungjong's neck to his back until he sighs contentedly.

But there's still the buzzing in the back of this mind, the tug-of-war between heart and mind, the warning to not go too far in to the deep, to keep one foot on the ground and not give himself up completely. Sungjong just barely admitted to having feelings for him, or whatever he was saying, and they haven't talked about the future, or even about right now. Sungjong could be gone next month, next week, shit, even tomorrow, caught up with his own destiny, and if he gives his heart away, his world is going to come crashing down when that happens.

Sungjong grows restless, moving against him to get comfortable, and it makes it a thousand times harder to stop himself. He's never been one to think with his dick over his mind, but Sungjong is captivating him, and each time their skin brushes against each other, he feels another surge of something, something deep and heavy, rushing through his veins like morphine. He's drunk on it, limbs heavy and thoughts slow, and Sungjong won't stop wiggling all over him.

"Hmph, sorry, I can't get comfy like this. Can we rearrange?"

And then Sungjong is pushing him over, sliding in front of him as they lay side by side, and he seriously begins to doubt how much of this was done for the pursuit of comfort over an attempt to drive him mad. Sungjong's hips wiggle into position, driving that round, perfect, wonderful ass of his against his cock, and any doubt of what's going on flies out the window in a heartbeat.

"Sungjong," he warns, as Sungjong grabs one of his arms to tuck around his body, bringing his hand up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Mmmm," Sungjong hums, tongue licking across one fingertip and making him jerk, "I think it's a great idea. The very best idea I can think of."

He feels stuck, captive to Sungjong's attentions without any chance of escape, and he tries desperately to remind himself why he had any reservations about this. Sungjong feels like fire in his arms, burning heat that consumes him, and he can feel his hips move on their own accord, bumping into Sungjong ever so lightly, feel Sungjong begin to move back into him, just a little, a slow drawl.

Sungjong doesn't let go of his hand, fingers a seeming wonderland for him to explore and play with, and when Sungjong takes one of his fingers in his mouth, he can't help but dig his fingers into his hip, small movements turning into rough grinding in response. Sungjong just feels so damn good, all hot and smooth and soft against his fingers, and he turns him to push him down into the couch, one knee coming up to grind between his legs. He likes the way Sungjong stares up at him, likes dealing out some payback to Sungjong's little antics, and the little breathy whines Sungjong make cut him like a whip.

He's vaguely aware of the departure of his control, of the fact that he is going to kiss Sungjong in a moment, very hard and probably a little messily as well, but he takes one last look down at him, all flushed and hair messed up and staring up at him, challenging him, and he wants to growl, wants to dominate him, mark him and own him, but Sungjong gets there first.

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Kiss me, right now."

"Are you telling me what to do?"

"Yes, I am. Now kiss me, like I told you to,  _hyung_."

The last word is thrown out like a challenge, a reminder that he's older but not making the rules right here, and maybe, if he were a puppy, his tail would be between his legs, because this kid is no joke. He still wants to possess Sungjong, but now he wants to do it just to obey him, to give in to his commands, to make him feel happy and satisfied and powerful, and why is that so hot? The very thought, that he has the power to please and quench and adore with his hands and mouth, to worship the god in human form that is Lee Sungjong, makes him feel a little crazy, and he follows his order.

Somewhere along the line he had gotten this tired notion that first kisses were meant to be gentle and delicate and romantic, but this is nothing of the sort, thank god. There's no light questioning, a subtle hint of lips and tongues opening mouths like a flower blooming. Both of them melt into each other, mouths already open when they meet, and his hands can't stay still, running down Sungjong's sides, grabbing one leg to wrap around his waist, lifting the hem of Sungjong's shirt to get access to his body.

Sungjong, for his part, lets it happen, own hand firmly in Howon's hair to keep him steady, and he opens his legs more, angling his body to meet his thrusts. In the part of his mind still capable of coherent thought (a rapidly diminishing portion), Howon acknowledges there are way too many barriers between them, too much preventing him feeling Sungjong's skin pressed against his, and he yanks Sungjong into a sitting position, shirt practically ripped off his body in an instant. He knows he's being aggressive, a bit rough and probably too hasty by half, but when he pushes Sungjong back down into the couch, he gets a look of approval, and damn, does that feel good.

His lips are everywhere, nipping at collarbones, teeth digging into shoulders, tongue flicking one nipple and then another. To him, a body's always been just that, a thing he sees hundreds of times a day when he walks down the street, but Sungjong is so much more. He's all warmth and clean scent (god, that scent is so much better now that he can press his nose in Sungjong's neck and breath deeply) and whatever the taste of him is, a hint of salt and something uniquely him, and Howon's sure there's no one else on Earth who could be as alluring as the man he's holding in his arms right now.

He sits up again, meaning to unzip Sungjong's jeans, when Sungjong's arm shoots out, cupping him through his own pants before he can even breathe, and then breathing doesn't even matter anymore. He's not even embarrassed when he cries out, sound foreign to his own ears, like it isn't him panting loudly enough to fill the room with the sound, and he keeps his eyes open, only to watch Sungjong's mischievous grin grow wider.

Sungjong rises up on one elbow, eyeing him closely as the heel of his hand grinds into him, making him moan, and his eyes move up and down his body, eyes narrowing as the corner of his mouth turns up. Sungjong doesn't stop the ministrations of his hand, rolling and cupping without pause, and it seriously is putting a damper on his ability to think straight.

"I want you to lift your shirt."

He obeys without question, arms crossed over his body as he goes to take it off, but Sungjong stops him.

"No, lift it. Not take it off. Yes, like that."

His shirt is lifted above his chest, tucked under his arms, one hand keeping the hem up, and Sungjong looks him over appreciatively, seeming to enjoy what he sees.

"Unbutton your pants. Zipper, too, hyung."

Some how undressing on Sungjong's command makes everything so much more arousing, and he desperately wants to take his pants off, just to be freed of the constraint. But Sungjong seems content to keep him on edge, hand dipping into the loosened fabric to slide over his boxers instead. The barrier is thinner than denim, and he can feel the heat of Sungjong's palm much better, but it's still not enough, and he can't believe that he, Lee Howon, is whining, bucking into the embrace to seek out a closer touch.

"Mm, I like how desperate you are for me. Don't worry, hyung, I want you, too. Just give me a minute."

Sungjong has him in the palm of his hand (literally and figuratively), and though he's always been the master and commander of his numerous exploits in bed, he would move the world if it made Sungjong happy right now. He lets Sungjong push him back, groaning when Sungjong slides his hands up to cup his ass before grabbing the edge of his jeans, divesting him of his underwear and pants together, and the juxtaposition of sensations, Sungjong's heat pressing against his thighs, the cold air of the apartment causing goosebumps to rise on his flesh, it's all so much to take in.

Sungjong's hand is smooth as it encircles him, quickly settling into a steady pace. Sungjong teases him here and there, running a thumb over the head of him, rolling his balls in one palm, one hand roaming over his abs, his chest, his arms, nails leaving scratches everywhere, but Sungjong can obviously sense he's already on edge, and it isn't long before he's jerking, deep pull in his belly, and he mumbles something half-coherent about being close.

The last fragment of coherency in his mind wonders what exactly Sungjong is going to use, but then Sungjong is ducking down, keeping up the pace as he takes him into his mouth, and he tries desperately to hold on, just to relish the feeling of Sungjong's hot, wet mouth embracing him. He manages to hold out for a minute, Sungjong never losing steam, and then it's slamming into him, nearly taking his breath away as he rides through it, moaning out Sungjong's name and not even caring. Sungjong sees it through, licking away the last drop to clean him up, and then he's pulling him up to crush their mouths together again. Sungjong has totally shocked him, taken his breath away, and he just can't stop touching him, tasting him, wanting him, even in the hazy afterglow of his orgasm.

"You don't mind that I just-?" Sungjong mumbles, lips still pressed to his, and he answers with a resounding " **no** " before sweeping his tongue into Sungjong's mouth again. He can taste himself, not exactly his favorite taste ever, but the sweet, intoxicating hint of Sungjong is still there, and he drinks it in. Sungjong's sprawled on top of him, arms thrown around his neck, and it thrills him, the feeling of Sungjong's pounding heart against his chest like a steady drum beat. In charge or not, Sungjong's still just as turned on as he is, as affected by their lovemaking as he is, and it's so exciting to him, to be wanted by Sungjong as much as he wants him.

He doesn't know how long they lay there, kisses slowing and melting into each other, before Sungjong pulls back, grabbing his arm and pulling him off the couch.

"Come take care of me," he coos, drawing him toward the stairs, and Howon picks him up, pressing him into the closest wall as Sungjong wraps his legs around the waist.

"You know, my bed is all the way upstairs, and you're so distracting, I'm not sure I can make it all the way," he breathes against Sungjong's neck, canines digging into sensitive skin until Sungjong whines beneath him.

"You better hope you hold on," Sungjong whispers, but it comes out more please than warning, and he starts up the stairs, the trek made much harder by Sungjong's weight and roaming lips, licking into the shell of his ear and pulling at his earlobe.

He deposits Sungjong unceremoniously on the bed, stepping back enough to grab the hem of his pants and yank them down, and Sungjong wiggles his hips, assisting him as best he can. Some scatterbrained, half-thought out idea flits through his mind, and he leans down, teeth grasping the band of Sungjong's underwear, and he pulls down, just hoping this works. It takes a good amount of effort, but he manages to pull them off, and he's just glad Sungjong doesn't laugh as he glides down his body.

When he finally gets them off, he drags Sungjong up again, and Sungjong nearly protests about being made to stand up when he drops to his knees in front of him, eyes staring up at him in silent question. He's a quick learner, very quick, and he smiles inside when Sungjong falters, mouth open as he looks down. Sungjong obviously likes to be in control, to at least have just a bit more say than his partner, and he knows Sungjong is tripping over himself mentally in anticipation.

"Can I, Sungjong? Will you let me suck your cock?" If Sungjong notices how the tables have turned, he doesn't protest the power shift.

"Do it, hyung," Sungjong practically begs, hands sliding through his hair to bring him closer, and he licks his lips in anticipation before taking Sungjong in his mouth, hands sliding up to cup the weight of his perfect ass that has no business being on a body like that.

Sungjong doesn't make it long standing up, legs growing shaky in minutes, and he pushes him back down, straddling him to pick up the pace. He likes the feel of Sungjong is his mouth, likes that Sungjong calls out his name. Out of the peripheral of his eye, he can see Sungjong's hands scrabbling against the sheets, knotting them between his fingers, and it makes him feel powerful. He spreads Sungjong out a bit more, laying between his legs fully, and his free hand traces the crease of one leg, down a thigh and back up again.

It's almost habit, to let his fingers explore on their own accord, to end up pressed up into whoever's he with, but he stops himself short, unsure of Sungjong's experience and willingness. Surely, there might be time for that later, but he still lets himself circle Sungjong, nearly gagging when Sungjong bucks up in response.

He pulls back, trying to catch his breath for a moment, and Sungjong is laughing, a nervous, hysterical sound.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting it and you surprised me!"

It's so unexpected and frantic, and somehow that makes the whole situation funnier, until they're both laughing, his head laid out on Sungjong's thigh even as he keeps pumping away at his dick with his hand, and there's something so freeing about being able to laugh with someone in bed. Sure, it's definitely a bit strange, to say the least, but he can't remember the last time he felt so comfortable with a lover, if ever.

"Sure. Just try to hold on to the reins better there, cowboy," he teases, and then he's taking Sungjong back into his mouth, and the laughter subsides, making way for the beautiful whines Sungjong makes.

He lets himself play around a bit, enjoying the thrill of taking Sungjong to the edge and bringing him back, and he tries to create as many sensations as he can. It's so arousing, to not only feel Sungjong's powerful reaction, but to know it's at his own hands, that Sungjong feels this way because of him. Whatever he's feeling, whatever connection they're sharing, goes way beyond just hooking up, or whatever this is, and he doesn't know what feels better: the feeling of Sungjong, or the deep sense of completeness he feels inside.

When Sungjong becomes restless, thighs quivering under his hands, he concentrates on finishing him off, lips tight around Sungjong's cock, twisting in unison with his hand, and the high keening sound Sungjong makes, the sound of his own name reverberating through his ears, makes even him moan in response. He cleans him up, tender with Sungjong's sensitive skin, and collapses on top of him, pressing his ear over Sungjong's heart. He's already hard again, has been hard since Sungjong started moaning his name, cock straining insistently between their bodies, but none of it matters at the moment; he could spend the rest of his life, listening to the thunder of Sungjong's heart, Sungjong's hands stroking his face again and again, and he would be happy, no, more than happy, just to be like this.

"You okay?" he asks bemusedly a few minutes later, Sungjong's breathing still coming in as pants beneath his ear.

"I don't even know," Sungjong croaks out, and Howon looks up, choking back a laugh at Sungjong's wild look, hair plastered to his face by sweat, eyes clenched tight, and mouth open, sucking in air. He could go for round two, for sure, but it's already nearly 5 am, and so he rolls them over instead, side by side, grabbing the corner of his blanket to wrap over them. There's all the time in the world for them later.

* * *

This time, sleeping with Sungjong is so much more comfortable, no longer afraid of reaching out in his sleep, and when he wakes up, they're face to face, hands intertwined between them. It just seems natural, to reach an arm out, wrap around Sungjong and draw him close, and Sungjong cracks open one eye before rolling on over, snuggling into his chest with a contented sigh before dozing back off.

It should make him feel weak, how much he needs this, how much he needs him. He's never needed anyone before, always managed by himself through everything alone, getting where he's at without the assistance of a single person. He's liked it that way, like the ability to go where he wants and do what he pleases and worry about himself without repercussion, but now there's Sungjong, and suddenly his whole view is different.

He desperately wants to ask someone, if this is what it's like to be in love. He wants to know if it's supposed to feel like electricity when you touch someone, if you're supposed to crave them, not even sexually, but their mere presence, their smile, the feeling that you know you've made them happy. Inguk hasn't met his match, so he's out of the question, Seungah's own perspective is warped (not due to any fault of her own, but still), and asking his mom would just lead to more questions and more worrying and more nagging.

He thinks it over for a while, watching Sungjong breath easy against his chest, when he finally figures out who he's going to ask. He just hopes she'll be able to answer him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's literally nothing I love more than how canon Howon's weakness for Sungjong is and how Sungjong totally loves on him all while holding the reins in hand I'm sorry I just had to explore that okay sry I hope this chapter still creates story development idk


	6. Chapter 6

Parting from Sungjong is near torture, and he holds him at the door for a while, kissing him again and again. He knows it's an addiction, a full-blown need, but he's got things to do, things he can't even explain to Sungjong yet, and he kisses him once more before finally letting him leave, feeling a little piece of his heart go with him. It's a rainy day, but he grabs his coat anyways, not deterred in his mission. He has way too many questions to answer right now, again, and no amount of downpour is going to stop him.

What he has so far is that, he's known Sungjong for a grand total three months, and there's no way he can be in love with him that fast, right? Love takes years and experiences and trial and error to be formed. So there's no way he can be in love with him. And yet, what he feels for Sungjong is unrivaled by any person he's ever met before, any emotion he's ever felt before. Every touch, every moment, is so special, so much more than ordinary, and that, that can't be normal. But, then again, they aren't matched either, and dammit, why is this so confusing?

The thoughts run through his mind again and again as he gets on the metro, taking his usual route to the department, and while he walks around, trying to remember where he's at. The markets blend together, shops and cafes empty in the rain, and he finally finds it, tucked between a bookstore and a restaurant of some sort, and he takes a mental note to remember where this is for future reference (that hopefully he won't need).

His hands are wet, from the rain or nerves, he's not sure, and he wipes them on his pants before reaching for the doorknob. As much as he hates the fact that he's back here, she's probably the only one who can help, and he might as well get it over with.

* * *

The assistant looks less than pleased to see him again, curtly handing him a warm tea without much of a greeting, and he sits quietly, drying off from the rain as he waits. The shop hasn't changed at all since he last saw it, photos still on the wall like last time, but somehow, it feels completely different now. He still has a burning desire to understand what's going on in his life, desperate for some sort of answer, but now he's not as aimless in his inquiries, no longer grasping in the dark. No, now he has a purpose, a future he can see if it all goes right, but yet, having a concrete desire instead of fluid dreams is so much scarier than he had expected. Now, the flow of his life isn't so jumbled, running straight down the line, but it seems so much easier to disrupt than when it was all twists and turns.

He waits a while, until a businessman comes out, looking pleased, and a bit longer after that, until the assistant motions him down the hall. She follows him, closing the door, and the look on her face leaves no room for argument: she's not leaving this time. Once upon a time, he might have mistaken that for being pushy or nosy, but now he understands her drive to watch over and protect. He understands it perfectly.

"Oh," says the fortune-teller as he sits down, "you again! How are you?"

"Curious." There's no point in beating around the bush here; either she can help him or she can't, and he's not here for idle chit-chat along the way.

"Okay," she says, looking at him with an obvious sense of reservation. "I'm not sure I can really tell you much more-"

"No no, it's not about that. Or not exactly. I met someone. Someone...I don't know what it is, but it's not like before. And that doesn't make sense to me. If what you said is true, how can I feel like this? I feel like he's...my match."

It's the first time he's admitted it, even to himself. He's been so caught up, in convincing himself it's just infatuation, just that moment of obsession many people have at the beginning of a relationship, that he's blocked out all the thoughts like this. He's fate-less, without even a match in the world, and doesn't that mean he literally cannot feel like this? It makes no sense.

The fortune-teller sighs, hands shuffling tarot cards idly. "This person...I understand you must like this person very much. But what I said stands, you don't have a match, and that's that. You, of course, can have as many deep, personal, loving relationships as you want, but I think it's impossible for you to have a match-"

"But then why did I meet him? Why do I feel like this? Why does he feel like this? What purpose is there?"

"Like I explained last time, there are two types of circumstances: those that are fated and those inspired by human events. Now, it can be fate for someone to be in the right place at the right time to meet someone, understand? For instance, your friends: maybe you were meant to work at a certain place, go to a certain school. But the people you meet there, also brought by their own fate, well, it's still your choice to become close to them. If someone insults your favorite, I don't know, sports team the first day you work with them, maybe you won't end up being close to them. It wasn't like fate was making them say that; it was a human choice for them to go off about it, and you happened to make a judgement call and decide that person wasn't for you. I don't want to say it was this person's fate to meet you, because that just can't happen, but if it makes sense, maybe fate brought him to where you were, because fate knew he needed to be there for some reason. Fate can obviously be blind, but it still senses where people should go, even when the future isn't set in stone."

There's a million reasons he can think of why Sungjong might benefit from meeting him, but his mind keeps returning to a future of them, together, forever. There are a hundred other choreographers, even many more in Jungho's studio he could have worked with, so it's not like he's guaranteeing Sungjong success in his audition just because they worked together. Then again, the reason he worked with Sungjong in the first place was because of his injury and the need for someone to help him, and the only reason he even worked for Jungho is because he just happened to go to the park on Sundays, and the only reason he went to the park on Sundays was because his friend from Busan - okay, how is fate not working in his life here? He can trace a hundred steps back, every moment in his life leading to meeting Sungjong, and doesn't that stand for something?

"Do you know the name of his match?" she asks, obviously trying to give him something more substantial to work with.

"No."

"Well, it could be that you're supposed to introduce him to that person. I know it's not what you want to hear, but that could be the answer. Maybe he was brought to where you were, not to meet a person there, but to encounter something that would start a chain reaction that led to him meeting his match. You need to find out what it says, and that may explain the whole thing."

But what about him then? He was just supposed to fall in love with him practically, share all this time and experience what they have, just to hand him over to someone else? Of course, that is how matches work, a fated love that can't be stopped, but what about his love? What about them?

"So you're saying, I meet this guy, who I can't stop thinking about, who feels like electricity in my hands when I hold him, who I crave, I literally crave, until I feel like I'm going mad, you're saying that I probably met him just so I lead him to where he's supposed to be, which is apparently not with me. That's not fair. I mean, dammit, I have dreams about him every night! Dreams so real I feel like I'm living them, like I can feel the coldness in the room when I dream about winter with him, and I can feel the heat of the child we have when I hold her in my arms. I can taste the japchae he cooks, and smell the laundry I wash in our apartment. It's not fair that I have to be tortured like this."

He doesn't care if he's crying in front of two practical strangers, face pressed into his hands as he rants, and he doesn't try to stop, sobs filling the room. His blood is rushing in his ears, breath catching in his throat, and he barely notices the fortune-teller and her match talking in hurried voices. The fortune-teller reaches across, fingers pulling at his arm, and he looks up, vision blurred through the tears.

"I need you to explain the dreams for me again, please," she says, voice shaky, and he wipes at his face. It's bad enough he has to keep rehashing this, but he figures he might as well amuse her.

"I don't know. Uhm, they started a few weeks after I met him, I guess. At first, it was just little snippets of scenes, a minute or so long in my mind, but then it turned into longer and longer periods the more I got to know him. They're so strange, because I feel like it's real. Like I'm actually there. I can feel everything, and smell stuff. I had a dream we were at the beach, and I could feel the sand, I could feel the air on my face. It must be just my air conditioning or something I guess, but it  _feels_  real."

"It is real."

The voice comes from behind him, and he turns, looking at the assistant in her seat by the door. She's looking at him completely differently now, like he's transformed before her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"The dreams...they're real life. It's pre-cognition. You're seeing into the future. Not seeing, experiencing."

"What..."

He turns his head back and forth between them, waiting for someone to explain, but both of them seem shocked into silence. He's shocked into silence. He can see the future? That makes no sense. There's no history of clairvoyance on either side of his family, not that he knows of, and that stuff doesn't just show up in people.

"It's pretty rare, but not unheard of. Different people have different abilities. Some people have an intuition that makes them sense their person the moment they are near them, for instance. She had had dreams, well, still has dreams," she says, head nodding to her match. "It just depends."

Of course, he's heard of people, people not necessarily spiritual mediators, who had a sixth sense almost. Even his own mom knew who his dad was, across a crowded subway station, without ever being introduced. But that's only for people with matches, and that would mean-

"Wait,  **what**? Are you saying-"

"Listen, listen to me, okay? What I can say is that, yes, it only happens with matches. I can't explain it, considering you're the only person to never have a match, maybe ever, but it seems like...I mean, I would say, yes, this person seems to be your match. This doesn't happen to people other than those that aren't matches. No one has pre-cognitive dreams about their neighbor."

He can't help it, rushing to his feet, pacing around the room like he's half-crazed. Sungjong is his match, even without the stupid letter, and he knew it, he so knew it. There was no way it could be anyone but him. And he's seeing into the future, seeing these dreams and...that means they're going to be together. Everything he's worked for is real, he did it all by himself, he did it. He's seen their future, their family, and they're going to be dads and have a daughter and a house and a dog and it's-

"There's something you need to know."

No, there's absolutely nothing else he needs to know, because her tone sounds worried and there's literally nothing else he needs to hear from here unless it's more talking about how him and Sungjong are going to be together forever.

"Howon, please, sit down."

He does, only because she asked, and he feels like puking. Her face shares none of his excitement, and he knows she's about to destroy him, somehow.

"I know what you're thinking, and I'm sorry. Your dreams are no guarantee. The future you're seeing is how it stands, right now. You obviously care for each other very much, and if life continued as it is, it would be how you see it in your dreams. But anything could change that. The future isn't set in stone."

"Anything...you mean like him meeting his actual match, right?"

"Yes."

If they had just left it there, skipped that last bit, his life would be perfect right now. He'd run back to Sungjong's, throw open his door, and kiss him forever. But now, he's exactly back where he started all those years ago, fighting against fate, and hopelessly losing.

"What do I do, then?"

"You need to find out who his match is."

* * *

He stands outside Sungjong's apartment for an eternity, rain dripping between the loose fold of his jacket to run down his back, but he doesn't make any effort to stop it. He knows what he has to do, but Sungjong's own reservations about revealing the name keep him planted on the sidewalk. He hates it to be him against Sungjong, but he might go crazy if he doesn't find out what's going on.

Not for the first time, he desperately wishes he could go to Inguk's office and just tell him straight out about everything, about his misplaced spirit and pre-cognizance and whatever else. Inguk is the only person within a two-hundred mile radius who even knows half of what is going on, but as much as he breaks the rules in other respects, even Inguk can't not report that information to the department, and he's got enough on his plate at the moment to be drug back in for more rounds of testing and evaluations. One day, he'll sit down and come clean, but today is not that day, and he has to rely on his instincts solely to figure out what he's going to do.

Sungjong seems a bit surprised, but not unhappy, when he calls him, saying he's downstairs, and Sungjong buzzes open the front door. He's only been to Sungjong's apartment once before, just to pick him up before spending the night at a noraebang, but his feet don't falter as he climbs the stairs to the fourth floor, turning this way and that before ending up in front of Sungjong's door. His movements feel robotic, like his feet are made of lead, and it takes all the effort in the world to lift his hand to ring the doorbell. Fate might have left him behind, but he's written his own destiny so far, and he's going to take this moment in his hands, whether it's in his favor or not.

* * *

He hadn't meant to get angry. If anything, he had wanted to be as delicate as possible, all things considered, but when Sungjong had turned him down, he couldn't help get a little frustrated.

"I said no."

"You don't understand, okay? I  _need_  to know. Today."

"I don't think  _you_  understand. It's my letter, and I have every right to reveal it when and only when I want to. You know this, I mean- I can't believe you're even pressuring me right now. Really."

It's not like him, to jump off Sungjong's bed and go ripping through his desk, his nightstand, his backpack, all while Sungjong tries to stop him, pulling at his arm, screaming and begging him to calm down, but he tears through his room, tossing aside this and that on his rampage. He picks up a book or journal or something like that, about to toss it over his shoulder, when he notices the silver edge of an envelope peeking out of the corner.

It only takes seconds to rip it out of the book, to slide the paper out, the same silvery paper as the envelope consists of, letters black against the background, imprinted against the back of his eyes for eternity.

His heart speeds up, reading the 이 and 호, but his eyes drift across the page, reading the last symbol, something like a 동 or 등, he reads so fast he can barely tell without his glasses on, and fuck fuck fuck, that's not his name. It's right there, printed out, the proof that, no matter what, he is not Sungjong's match.

Lee Hodong. Or Hodeung. Whatever it is, it definitely isn't Lee Howon.

He lets Sungjong rip it out of his hands, unable to move or breath or even think, and he doesn't know how long he sits there, crumpled on the floor. It's only Sungjong's crying, somewhere over his left shoulder, that makes him move.

Sungjong's heaves tear through him, and as selfish as it is, he can't help but think of himself. He won't be the one to dry Sungjong's tears in the future, to gather him in and hold him close and rock him 'til it's all over, and that just refuels his anger. It's not fair, it's just simply not fair that he has to let him go, to someone else, and it sickens him, that somebody else will touch him, love him, be loved by him.

"That's not my name."

It sounds stupid even to him, but he doesn't know what else to say. All these thoughts are coming into his head like a speeding train, most of them twisted and dark, and he grabs on to the fabric of his pants to keep from grabbing whatever closest to him and throwing it at the wall.

"No shit! Don't you think I would've said something if it had been?"

"Oh, don't act like that's fucking obvious. I don't know why you kept it a secret. You could've fucking mentioned that before fucking...seducing me and making me fall for you even more."

" _Seducing_  you? You wanted it just as much as I did! I was just the one ballsy enough to make a move."

"But you knew what would happen."

"So did you!"

And that's true, he thinks, laughing out loud without any humor. He knew exactly what would happen, but he chose to feign ignorance because it seemed so easy at the time to do so. He knew exactly, 100%, this would come back to haunt him, and look here, look at him now. Matched to someone, for real this time, and they belong to someone else. He didn't just play with fire, he jumped right into an inferno and expected to be okay.

"Fuck. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair!"

He's never punched a wall before, never thought he was the type of go off like that, but it feels good, to repeatedly slam his fist into it until his knuckles bleed and the pain is white hot. At least the burning takes away from the screaming pain of the truth that's reverberating in his head. But it only goes so far, does so much to distract him, and he has to get it out sometime.

"This is your fucking fault."

"Oh? How so? Please enlighten me, oh knowledgeable one. Please explain how I did anything to cause this."

"I'm not your match."

"What- excuse me? I'm not your match either! What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Yes, you are."

Sungjong stares at him incredulously, as if he doesn't believe him, but his faces changes, as if suddenly it all makes sense, like all these puzzles pieces jumbled in his mind suddenly sort out.

"I wondered- but I thought- why didn't you tell me? Hyung...why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't know."

Any worried etched on Sungjong's face disappears in an instance, and the anger returns.

"What do you mean, you didn't know? How old are you again?"

"I didn't get a letter, okay? That's how."

He can tell Sungjong doesn't believe him, and if he were a lot calmer, he'd understand the skepticism, but now it just makes him angrier. How dare he think he's lying about something like this.

"Oh, sure, okay. Whatever, if you're going to fuck around with me, you can leave. Now."

"Maybe I should, don't want to get in the way of you and your loverboy, wherever he is-"

"Stop blaming me! Don't you think I would choose you if I could? Why do you think I didn't tell you? All I want is you. I'd burn this stupid letter and be done with it if it meant I could keep you forever."

"That's not how that works though, is it?"

"Wha- of course it's not how it works. What are you even saying anymore? This isn't my fault!"

"Well, you'll still end up happy, so congratulations."

Sungjong lashes out like a snake, grabbing his shirt collar in a split second, and he's on his back on Sungjong's bed before he can even react, a heaving Sungjong's right knee dug into his chest to keep him from moving.

"I'm going to explain something to you, and you're going to listen, understood? See this," Sungjong waves the letter in front of his face, close enough that he can see it definitely says Hodong, though the last character is all messed up, seemingly smudged or something. "See this letter? Look at it. How many letters have you seen? A few, right? All different colors of the rainbow, greens and purples and blues, right? Look at my letter. What is the color of my letter? Do you understand this?"

It's black on silver, similar colors to a soulless letter, except those are silver on black, so that can't be it, right?

"You're not a soulless, though..."

"I don't know what I am. Neither did the people at the department when I went to report my letter coming in. See how the last later isn't clear? They have no idea what that means. No one had even seen a letter smudged, like if someone had tried to erase it. They can assume I'm not a soulless, because why wouldn't I have just gotten a black letter, but they don't know what this is supposed to mean, and they told me not to get my hopes up."

It's so crazy, he could laugh. Here he is, the only person in the world to not get a letter, and he's in love with this kid who's letter might as well not even come, if the department people are right in their suspicions. It sounds like a bad drama to him, so bad he could almost laugh.

"You might never meet them, then. If they are alive still."

Sungjong sits back, looking drained, and he nods. "Exactly. There's no guarantee I will."

It explains so much, Sungjong's reluctance to speak about matches at all, the way he always said "if" instead of "when" when referring to meeting them. Sungjong's even more lost than he is, constantly on the look-out for someone that may never come, and it hits him how much he just fucked everything, majorly.

"Sungjong, I didn't- I'm sorry, I should have-"

"I know. And now you understand. So now that that's explained, I'd like you to leave."

Shit.

"Sungjong, I-"

"Please don't make this harder than it has to be. I thought I could trust you, I thought you understood me when so many other people didn't, but I guess I was wrong. I expected so much more- fuck, whatever. Just go."

Sungjong won't even look at him, eyes staring at the wall, but his chin quivers, and Howon reaches out to him, wanting so badly to find a way to even start apologizing.

"Sungjong, please-"

"Don't fucking touch me! I said leave. I don't want to see you anymore."

And though he hates to leave him like this, he gets up anyway, dragging himself out the door. He'll let Sungjong cool off, send him a text or something in a day or two, and then he'll start repairing what he can. Sungjong has a temper streak, but he doesn't hold grudges forever, and he just has to wait for the right moment to come to fix this whole mess.

* * *

A week later, the moment still hasn't come.

Of course, he's tried to apologize, sent Sungjong texts and then more texts, left him voice messages, showed up at his door. Sungjong might as well have disappeared off the face of the Earth, and he doesn't hear back, no matter how desperate his efforts get. Sungjong isn't at the studio, isn't with his friends, and the realization Sungjong isn't going to forgive him begins to sink in.

He doesn't even notice at first, how bad he feels, and just chocks it up to a lack of sleep and food in the aftermath of their fallout. After three days, he manages to fall into exhaustive rests, but he's plagued by dreams of permeating darkness and fog, chilly and suffocating, and he wakes up feeling less rested than before he went to sleep. He starts getting headaches and body aches, almost like he has a cold, around day five after their fight, and pain medication does little to help.

By day seven, he's barely making it through work, and Seungah pulls him out of a practice room and into one of the offices upstairs.

"What are you doing, stupid? When's the last time you talked to your match?"

"7 days, 4 hours, 32 minutes, and 8, 9, 10 seconds, to be exact," he says idly, looking at his watch. It takes a conscious effort to not curl up in a ball and die right now, and Seungah is looking him over like a doctor, irritating him in his discomfort.

"Are you dumb? No wonder you have the sickness."

"What sickness?"

"Withdrawals, dumbass. What other sickness would I be talking about?"

The realization feels like being dropped into ice water, and he can't help but laugh, hysterically, at the situation. This whole thing keeps getting better and better, the dreams, the overwhelming sadness, and now withdrawals, and he kind of wonders why he was so eager to have a match in the first place. Because it kind of sucks ass, big time, and the con list is far outweighing the pro list.

"Well, he disappeared, and I can't find him. So can you tell me, is it going to get worse?"

Seungah stares at him for a moment, obviously trying to figure out if he's delirious or not. "He? Don't you mean she?"

He's definitely slipped before, said suspicious stuff that's made everyone do a double take and ask him what he's talking about, but he's so over it now, so over the lies and stories and webs he's had to spin for nearly three years. It's freeing, to let it all slip away, to remove the veil and show the truth to the world, even if it's just Seungah for the moment, and he talks until his face is sore and his throat feels dry, not leaving out a single detail. Seungah's demeanor changes a million times, all range of emotions displayed on her face, and he finishes off with a deep sigh, feeling like the heaviest of weights has been lifted off his shoulders.

Seungah's quiet for a long time, lips pursed in thought, and she finally leans over him, looking into his face, before slapping him soundly, so hard his head snaps to the side.

"Ow." He's so tired and worn out, it comes off monotone, but it hurts like hell, and he cups his hand around his stinging cheek. "What was that for?"

"You lied! For three years! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know. Oh wait, yes I do. ' _Hi noona, how are you? Have you eaten? By the way, interesting little trivia, I'm probably the only person, in history, to have never received a letter. Isn't that crazy?_ ' You're right, I should have just dropped that over tea one day. Besides, the department made me promise to not even tell anyone"

"Don't act like you couldn't have come clean some other way. And I'm not just anyone, but, fine, that I guess I can understand that part. But you could have just said you hadn't met them yet, you know? I mean, I thought we understood each other because..." she trails off, shrugging at the slight.

"I know, but that wasn't ever going to happen, or so I thought. I knew if I just said I was a mismatch that I could get people off my back. The matches...they never like mentioning it, huh? Like, they think that bringing it up is cardinal sin number one, like I was going to burst into tears at the mention. I guess some days might be like that, but generally speaking, everyone left me alone with my love life, and that's how I wanted it."

"And look how it backfired. It ended up happening anyways. God, you look awful."

Inguk, Seungah, Sungjong: all of them know the exact thing to say to make him feel oh so much worse about the situation. Once he gets his life straightened out a bit, he's going to take out sailing or cooking or knitting classes, if it means he can get out and meet new people.

"Yes, thank you for reminding me. From what it seems, I look as awful as I feel. How do I stop it, by the way?"

"Well, you have to find him, wherever he is. If you can talk a bit, you'll feel better. I mean, you've seemed to hit rock bottom, I don't think you're going to get worse, but you won't feel better until that happens."

Oh, good. Considering Sungjong isn't ever going to talk to him again probably, he can expect to feel this way for the rest of his life. Wonderful.

"Well, I tried to call him like a thousand times. I even went to his apartment, but no one was there. He hasn't been here either, so I don't know where to look. I could ask Jungho, I guess, but I don't know what he knows, and I don't want to drag him in..."

Seungah looks at him with a look he's now very used to seeing, and frankly, he's getting a little tired of it. Her face says she has something he probably doesn't want to hear, and he'd really like some good news, just a little, if that's not too much to ask.

"Howon...Sungjong isn't in Seoul."

Tired or not, he snaps up, grabbing her shoulders to pull her closer. "Where is he? His audition is in two weeks!"

"He's not going to do audition anymore. He went back to Gwangju. Howon...he's gone."

* * *

He really wants to be angry. It's the most logical reaction; Sungjong's spent the last three months practicing every day, vocal lessons and dance lessons, routines created, songs dissected to figure out which will best suit his vocal range. All this work, all this effort and time spent, and he up and leaves, just because of, what,  _him_? Like he's worth throwing a dream away over.

But, surprisingly, he isn't angry at all. He's just tired, wanting to climb in bed and sleep away the rest of his life uninterrupted, and his feet drag as he leaves the studio, wandering aimlessly throughout the streets en route to his metro stop. Every step takes a conscious effort, and he feels like he's trudging through mud. It's all too much, too fast. He lived three years managing his fate, dealing with it as best as he could, eyes on the future, and now this, this kid, has come into his life like a tornado, shaken up everything, and left as quickly as he came, a trail of disaster in his wake. And yeah, a lot of that is his fault, for not saying what he should have, for pushing too fast and too soon, but that doesn't change the fact that he here's, left alone like this.

He's in love, completely and wholly, with Lee Sungjong, and now he doesn't even know where he's at, when (or even if) he'll see him again, if he's even okay.

He fights an urge to sit down at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, but he doesn't want to attract the attention of the people in the crowd he's in; it's pretty strange to just sit down on the pavement, at 3:30 pm on a Tuesday afternoon, and he's so close to the stop, just on the other side of the street, he just has to cross here and he can sit to his heart's content all the way home.

He takes out his phone while he's waiting, punching in Sungjong's number automatically without much thought, and it rings and rings against his ear without an answer. When it finally clicks off, he realizes the group around him has moved across, crossing the intersection, and he steps out into the street without looking either way, hoping to catch up.

Didn't the fortune-teller herself tell him about the example of fate and human created events, about stepping out into the crosswalk at the wrong time? It seems funny to him that he'd think about that at the moment, but oddly he doesn't hurt and yet everything is screaming pain in his body. He's pretty sure, actually, almost completely sure that the blood he can see is from him, but he can't lift his head to check. He just feels cold and a bit confused, and his lungs seem to be compensating for something, trying to suck in air in a much faster rate than he swears he normally breathes at, and that's all he can hear, the sound of his breath crashing like thunderous waves on the rocks.

* * *

He's moving the next time he opens his eyes, unaware of how time passed without him noticing, and of where he's going. It's much colder now, and he tries to shift, looking to sit up, even though something hurts somewhere on his body, but he's constrained. He jerks, trying to get free, and two sets of hands appear out of nowhere, and if there are people around him, can't someone get him a blanket, or help him stop breathing so fast? It's irritating, he's woozy and anxious, and where is Sungjong, is he at home? Why are his thoughts all messed up, and he needs to go home so he can lay down, because's he's starting to feel lightheaded. He has a lot to think about, and why can't those hands make his heart stop racing?

* * *

When his eyes open again, everything is much calmer, but he's still cold. There's no sound, there's no jostling, and he realizes after a moment, there's no real light. It's the same cold, oppressive place as the dreams he's been having. So this is the future, then.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, and then they pop open again, but nothing really changes. The pitch-blackness of this place feels a lot like staring at his eyelids; he thinks he's seeing black, but in an odd way he can't tell. It might be a different color, or no color at all for that matter, but he doesn't know what is what. Not that it matters, because he doesn't have a hell of a lot else to do, so he ponders the idea for a while.

He still can't move, and so he lays there, letting time pass, and this would be a lot nicer if he could just stop thinking. Instead, visionless memories of Sungjong repeat like a movie in his head, reminding him of all the bad things he's done, teasing him with the memories of kisses and laughs, and this isn't the future he signed up for at all. Oblivion isn't all it's chocked up to be, and that kind of disappoints him, to be honest.

He can feel things start to move around him, but it doesn't scare him. The cloaks or shoes or whatever of the people (or ghosts, whatever they are) he's feeling around him (or just sensing, he can't really tell) seem to be too pre-occupied with their own destinations, though he swears he can feel something stop and look down at him for a while before trudging on. No one's stepping on him, just letting him wallow in his own pity, and when he finds a way to get up, he might buy them a drink or something, because that's really nice of them, to just let him be, and Seungah and Inguk should take a page out of their books for future reference. If he can find a bar, that is.

It finally crosses his mind a second later that, oblivion aside for the moment, he actually has no idea where he is, and his eyes pop open again, and huh, would you look at that, he's standing above himself. At least he thinks that's him, he's never seen himself from the perspective of an outsider, but he's seen a lot of pictures and mirrors, and he's almost certain that critical face is identical to the one he regularly makes. Yup, that's him alright.

And black swirling abyss of despair or wherever he's at aside, well, frankly, that's a  _little_  strange.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update took forever!
> 
> Once upon a time, back in college, I almost decided to go into forensics. I mean, like, I went through a bunch of classes, did diagnoses through all these cases through our local autopsy lab, but I thought I wasn't smart enough to get a masters in the field, so I followed the career path of my other major. 
> 
> What I'm trying to say is, I get a bit medical-ish in this chapter, but to be honest, I'm probably pulling half of this out of my ass, even though this type of trauma was my specialty, so if it sounds a bit stupid...I'm sorry. 
> 
> Also, stay in school kids, and don't be like me, even if something's really daunting you go do it. Go do biochem or physics or w/e you want b/c you can do it, if you really want it. Yes you.
> 
> This has been a pointless word vomit.

"There you are."

It's a weird thing to say- wait, no, his other self, or whatever, didn't say that. Or at least, his lips didn't move. But he definitely heard it, inside his head. He strains his ears for a moment, seeing if he can hear anything else, but nothing makes a sound. So he can't see, or at least not really, he can't hear, and he can't move. It's a bit frustrating, to be honest.

_Am I dead?_

He can't possibly move his lips, can't do anything, but somehow he, or whatever it is, understands, and he shrugs his shoulders.

_Well, we're not alive, that's for sure._

And for some reason, that makes him really, really sad. He didn't even get to say goodbye to anyone, never got to tell Sungjong he was sorry, never got to show his parents who he was really was. He'd work so hard, all to end up here, wherever he is, and that's just...sad.

He can feel tears trickle down the side of his cheeks, slipping out from the corners of his eyes, and he's surprised out of everything, that's the one thing he can still manage to do. He's not usually one to dissolve into tears, and when he does, it's usually not much, but now his eyes leak like a sieve, a constant stream, and he can't even wipe them away.

_Now hold on, it doesn't mean it's permanent._

Of course, a spirit of the other realm might know better than him, but he's pretty sure death is pretty damn permanent, a sealed deal, finito. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 hundred dollars, you are Dead with a capital D and that's just the long and short of it.

_Sassy and crying is quite an odd combination. We are very strange, you know? And yes, I do know better than you. Trust me, we're not dead dead._

Not dead dead. He guesses he should be happy about that, but if's he only partially dead, it still doesn't solve the fact that he's here, and this is definitely not Earth, so he's certainly not living either. If anything, this is just like him; he can't even die properly. No, he just half-assed it, and now he's stuck here, quite literally, and isn't that just fucking peachy?

_How long have I- uh, have we been here?_

_No, you were right. It's just you. You just showed up. So, I'm not sure._

_Do they not have watches here?_

_Thank you, jackass. No, they don't. Because they don't have time here._

Oh. Well.

_How long have you been here?_

_Eternity? Something like that._

_Eternity? I've only been alive 23 years._

_Yeah, well, that's my whole existence, then. An eternity to me. Like I said, there isn't time here, so everything seems very...slow, I guess. I don't even understand time, I can only tell from your memories it even exists._

It freaks him out, that this thing can read his memories, but then he remembers, it's supposed to be part of him, and he guesses that makes sense.

_You didn't think to come find me?_

_I can't leave here without you. I don't even know how we got seperated. The guardians went out searching, but they never found you, so I just waited. You had to come back eventually._

He doesn't know who exactly the guardians are, but apparently they suck.

_The guardians...uhm, hm. They make sure everyone gets to where they are supposed to be. Like gatekeepers, I guess?_

They still suck, but he's not worried about that at the moment.

_So, now that we're reunited, how do I get you back...inside of me?_

_I'm not sure, but we'll find out, I guess._

It's less than comforting, but the blackness illuminates like lightning is dancing across the sky, and for the first time, he can feel a physical sensation in his body, like his heart is being pulled out of his chest, and he realizes that's what's been wrong this whole time: his heart wasn't beating.

The flash disintegrates back into pitch blackness for a moment, or forever, he's not sure, but then it's flitting across the sky again, and he definitely feels himself being pulled in some direction, and his spirit looks down on him, edging a bit closer. There's something else there, too, something he can't see, but he can certainly feel, and then everything moves all at once.

It's a weird thing, to watch yourself fall into yourself, but that's what he does, like an out of body of experience or something. He imagines it's quite similar to watching yourself fall through a mirror in slow-motion, and he closes his eyes, just waiting for the impact.

* * *

The first thing he notices is the light, how it's so bright, enough for him to close his eyes in reaction. He opens them slowly, adjusting to the whiteness of everything, and this is definitely not his apartment.

The second thing he notices is how beat up he feels, like there's a thousand cuts and bruises everywhere on his body, on his chest, on his wrists, and he realizes it's pain, is what he's feeling. Pure, unfiltered pain. It's not terrible, but it's not comfortable either, and he tries to sit, groaning at the effort. There's tubes and wires all around his body, in his hand, on his face, it's he flaps his arms, trying to get it off.

The third thing he notices is that there's a very familiar voice, yelling out for someone at a distance, and who's voice is that? It's on the tip of his tongue, rolling around in his mouth, but he just can't place it. All he knows for sure is that he definitely knows it, definitely has heard it a million times, and it's soothing almost. Everything is so confusing and twisted right now, but that, that voice...that's home at the moment, and he turns his head, trying to find the disembodied person it belongs to.

He doesn't have an opportunity to look around much, because there are two hands on his head, turning his face back up, and he's pretty sure the person standing above him, hair falling around her face and a stethoscope dangling over one shoulder, is the masculine voice he just heard.

"Well, good morning, sunshine! Welcome back to the land of the living. How do you feel?" she says, hands everywhere, checking this and that and counting under her breath as she stares at some machine to the side of his bed, before nodding happily and turning back to him.

"Like hell," he croaks, throat rough and painful, and he adds a belated "ow" as he tries to swallow.

"Oh, you were intubated, that's right. Well, it's going to be sore for a little, that had to do it RSI when you went under, they thought you were going into respiratory failure, and-"

"What?"

"Respiratory failure. Well, cardiorespiratory arrest, to be exact. Relatively speaking, you're not  _that_  badly injured, but you apparently went into shock, which isn't uncommon for trauma patients, especially since you bled out pretty bad. Anyway, luckily you were already en route when you went into cardiac arrest, so the EMTs brought you right back, your heart stopped beating for about, hm, 45 seconds, but as you can see, or feel I guess, you don't have any neurological degeneration or tissue atrophy in your extremities, so all in all, you made out quite well."

He has no idea what's she talking about, what he made it out of, or why he's here. The last thing he remembers is... _whoa_ , that's weird.

The last thing he remembers is being in the studio, feeling down about Sungjong avoiding him, and after that, it's just blank, all of it. Of course, he certainly got here somehow, but his memories cut off around lunch time, like the cord of a TV being ripped out of the plug midway through a movie, and it's like a huge cliffhanger. What happened?

He doesn't get a chance to ask her, because she walks out into the hallway, talking to someone in passing, and the person's hands, the person with the voice, are on his face, leaning over him. It's oddly comfortable, the smell he's so used to, the feeling rough palm he knows as well as his own reminding him of home and comfort and everything not clinical and cold, but he's nothing short of shocked to see him here. It certainly makes sense in a way, but after their fighting, he'd expect three or four other people to be here in his stead, and the idea that it's him makes his stomach flutter a bit.

"Appa."

* * *

He's only seen his dad cry a few times, only when someone in his family has died, and having him cry now, face pressed into his hair as he shakes, he really hates it. He's alive, not necessarily well, but if the nurse's words have any weight, he seems to be pretty lucky all things considered, and he doesn't want his dad, of all people, to cry over him, not a single tear. But he doesn't try to stop him, letting him stroke his hair like when he was a little kid and he got hurt, and he holds on to one hand, squeezing it in comfort. And it's a weird thing, to be comforting his dad, but he's not going to question it now.

His dad finally pulls back, sitting down in the bedside chair, and he's almost afraid to ask what happened to him. It's totally bizarre: something, apparently pretty terrible, happened to him, to his body, and yet, he's the only one in the world who doesn't even know the story. It's almost a bit unfair, in a way, that he's the one who's gone through all this and yet he has to be the one to be informed, and he doesn't know why he's irritable all of the sudden. It just makes him squirm, that he could have died, and he wouldn't have even been aware. He doesn't know where he was, what his mind was doing, but he wasn't even aware of how he came to be here, and the rush of his own mortality is more uncomfortable than the IV in his arm.

"What happened?"

What happened, as his dad explains, is that he got hit in a crosswalk across from his stop by a truck traveling at mid-speed, luckily for him. The bumper had hit him at waist height on his left side, slightly lacerating his kidney, and the metal guard attached to it had ripped open his side. The cut had been shallow but wide, causing him to bleed out, and he had gone into shock, probably from both injuries, while in transit to the hospital. They had thought, because of the cardiac arrest, he had had major internal bleeding, considering the level of trauma of his actual wounds was generally not enough to induce it itself, but exploratory procedures had later found the only two issues were the cut and the loss of blood in response and the kidney damage. They had defibrillated him en route, jump starting his heart, and generally speaking, all after care was relatively non-invasive.

His hand runs across his side, feeling the neat row of stitches one after another in a curved line across his chest and side, and he's surprised he can't feel them hurting. He can feel the catheter, something he tries not to think about, but it doesn't hurt either, and all in all, that's probably what catches him the most.

"How long have I been out? I don't even feel anything. Or I mean, I do, but I don't think I'm feeling it like it actually is, if that makes sense."

"Well, you've been under anesthesia and pain meds all night, into this morning. It's only been about, hm, 27 hours since the accident, I think. You woke up for a bit in intervals, but you were real out of it, so they said you might not remember it. God, Howon, you scared your mom and I so much. We thought we were going to lose you again."

At first, he thinks his dad is talking about his abrupt departure and subsequent distance, and it's probably the most painful thing he feels at the moment. Of course, he always knew he should be better, should reach out more, but he had just been so angry, at everything, that most days he hadn't wanted to talk to anyone, much less the people who expected the most out of him. And so he starts apologizing, paltry words doing little in his mind to make up for three years of icy standoffishness, but he's feeling a lot right now, and it just makes sense. His dad listens for a bit, letting him talk, before he stops him, trying to calm him down.

"Wait- that's not what I meant. I mean, not that we shouldn't talk about- of course, not now that is. No, what I meant it is...well, it seems a bit silly now, I guess. But when you were born, you didn't cry. Your brother had come out screaming, I remember the nurses laughing, but you... it scared me. Your mom and I, we both were waiting, and you were just silent. So they whisked you away, before your mom or I could even get a could look at you, to this little incubator thing, and of course, we couldn't help but worry. I mean, you were blue, and limp, we just didn't know. So time passed, it felt like forever, and finally you had this little tiny mewl of a cry, so small I could barely hear it, but I swear, it was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard."

"You never told me," he says, shocked. 23 years old, and he's never even heard this story.

"Well, to be honest, it does happen. Or at least that's what the nurses told us. Lots of babies need a little help in the beginning, get the fluid cleared from their lungs and throat and what not, so honestly, I never really thought of it afterward. Well, that's not true."

"Hm?"

His dad glances at him nervously, and, god, is he that reactionary of a person, that everyone's always walking on egg shells around him, constantly second guessing whether they should say something or not?

"What is it?"

"They kept you in observation for a bit, just to make sure you were doing alright. But things kept happening. Weird things. Like, your wires kept getting wrapped around you somehow, nearly strangling you, even though you didn't move that much. Your oxygen mask came off and you stopped breathing for a bit. Very, very peculiar. Even after you came home, just very coincidental things. Blankets covering your face when you were sleeping, you rolled off a bed pretty early too, bruised yourself bad. At first, we thought it was just your brother, two year olds are pretty curious, and we thought he was sneaking into your crib and turning you over on to your face or putting a blanket on you because he thought he was helping. But he went away to your grandparents for a few weeks, and it just kept happening."

He feels a sick sense of dread in his stomach, creeping up his spine like a spider, and the room feels frigid. Of course, it could just be coincidental, but this is just too much, really. Something is very wrong about this, and he can't put his finger on it.

"So when did it stop?"

"We ended up at a fortune-teller. He said the best bet was to change your name, that perhaps some evil spirit had cursed you. I mean, we were desperate. Neither of us, your mom and I, we weren't sleeping; we were constantly watching you, just to make sure you didn't...die. It was a miserable way to live. And so we did. I think you were about three months. We went to the registry and changed it."

This is brand new information, and he can hear his heart monitor slowly start beeping faster, the steady pace of his heart beginning to race.

"Why didn't you tell me? Don't you think I might want to know this?"

"Well, the fortune-teller said we shouldn't discuss it openly. The point of the name change was to throw off any spirits who may come try to find you, whether you believe that or not, and, sure, we got a little superstitious. It's not like we were trying to hide it from you. We were trying to hide you from bad fortune."

He could almost laugh at the situation, of the idea that fate lost him in the sea of people over the world, and he wishes his own fortune-teller was here to hear this whole thing. Sure, it makes sense, but it's just too much right now. The idea that his parents saved his life by sacrificing any fate he might encounter sounds like something lifted straight out of a movie.

"So what was it? Hojun and Hojae both have jieuts in their names, did mine too? Was I Hojoo? Hojin maybe?"

"No, but sometimes I wonder why we didn't give you a similar one either time. No, it was Hodong, actually."

* * *

His monitor sounds like one continuous beep, heart rate sky-rocketing, and his nurse rushes back in, checking his vitals even as he strains against her.

"Hodong? My name was  _Hodong_?" It feels rough to yell, but he's having a hard time differentiating between reality and fiction, and he can't tell if this is a hallucination or a nightmare, a very, very real nightmare.

"You need to calm down, or I'm going to have to sedate you. Howon, please, you're going to rip out your stitches if you keep thrashing!"

He doesn't mean to be difficult, but he needs to get out of bed, to grab his dad and touch his face and be absolutely positively sure that this is real, because this is something he couldn't even dream up, it's so horrific. He was there, the whole god damned time, his whole life right in front of him, and now it's gone. He had made it, everything was right, and he fucked it up, because he got impatient.

"I need 100 mg Luminal, intravenous administration, now!" his nurse yells to someone else in the hall as she tries to press him down, but he pushes back, fighting to get up.

"Why didn't you tell me-"

"This is your last warning, Howon-"

" _Why_?"

And he sees the needle, sees her pull at his IV, bringing it up, and everything seems to make sense in the milliseconds it seems to take for her to push the needle into the line.

"Wait!"

Everyone freezes, even the passersby in the hallway, and her finger stays on the plunger, paused momentarily.

He's deathly still now, but she eyes him suspiciously, waiting to push down on the needle at any moment. "Are you going to be calm now?"

"Yes, yes, I promise! I'm sorry!"

She straightens up, sliding the needle out of his IV, but she doesn't move from his bedside. The movement returns around him, the people in the hall moving along, the nurses who had rushed in going back to their stations, but his dad is still shell-shocked, unmoving in the chair.

"I need to talk alone with my dad, ma'am," he asks, voice as remorseful as he can make it.

"After that little stunt? I don't think so. You're lucky I didn't knock you out until tomorrow, kid. I'm half-tempted to call security as it is. Not to mention you just risked injuring yourself even more, thrashing around like that," she retorts, hand under his hospital gown, feeling along the line of stitches, still intact despite his movements.

He doesn't want to say this in front of her, but he needs to get it out now, and despite the agency's warnings, he doesn't even care. "That's why I never got a letter, dad."

He goes on, not even stopping at the nurse's gasp or his dad's "Howon!", and it all spills out, unable to be contained. "I died, when I was born. Or something like that. They revived me, right? I went to a fortune-teller, and she said that I didn't have a spirit, and that it was the strangest thing she had ever seen. That must have been it. It was supposed to come into the world with me, but it went back out, we went back out, and they brought me back, and we got separated. So fate...it must have been trying to correct itself. People aren't supposed to live without spirits, and it was trying to reunite my spirit and I, and that must be why I kept getting hurt. But when you changed my name...it couldn't find me anymore. Because my spirit was tied to my name, it kept looking for Hodong, not Howon, because spirits are blind, they can't see my face, they just go off of names, and that's it. That's it, appa!"

He's breathing heavy by the time he gets done, words coming out like the rush of a waterfall at the end, and both his dad and the nurse are looking at him like he's completely lost it, though his dad seems to be thinking it over. Of course, he's just connecting the dots, and he could be wrong, but if anything that the fortune-teller said is true, and he sincerely thinks it is (there's no way she would have known half of what she did about him if she didn't have another sense), then that has to be what happened, right? But then...

"Did I die?"

He grabs the nurse's hand so quickly, she jumps, pulling away from him, and he leans over more, trying to reach her.

"Did I die?"

"Well, I, uhm- you didn't have any brain activity or a heart beat for nearly a minute, and you weren't breathing...I mean, they did bring you back, but usually they wait longer to declare death-"

"But, technically, I was pretty much dead for that minute."

"I mean, yes, if you think about it-"

"Oh my god."

It's so weird, to be happy about dying, but it's probably the best thing that's happened to him in his life. He died, again, just momentarily, but that has to be enough, right? The nightmare he was in has turned in to the best of dreams, and he's sobbing, totally sobbing, overjoyed. His dad touches his face, wiping away tears, and he grabs his hand, bringing it in to hold.

He has to have his spirit back.

* * *

His mom comes in later, called to let them know that he's awake and alert, and they explain the whole story again. Of course, they all have their skeptical ideas about it, and there's no way to tell just yet, but he feels more optimistic about life than he has in a very, very long time. The only rain cloud on his parade is the fact that he has to stay in observation for at least another 24 to 48 hours, to make sure his kidney isn't further damaged and that there are no long-lasting effects to his temporary loss of life or whatever it was and the various tolls it takes on a body.

Oh, and Inguk. Always Inguk.

He's happy to see him when he wakes up, Inguk sitting in the chair usually taken by one of his parents, but they are getting much needed rest in his apartment, and it's just the two of them. He reaches out to grab his hand, but Inguk's face doesn't light up like normal, and that's very much not a good sign.

"Hey," he says, offering a greeting, but Inguk just stares on through him without a word.

"The department gave you those guidelines for a reason, Howon. Didn't we talk about potential worldwide hysteria if your case was revealed?" Inguk finally drawls out, voice seeming tired. He doesn't like the treated like a little kid, scolded for this, even though he knows he deserves it.

"Am I going to get in trouble?"

"Well, currently, there's no precedent for revealing personal information like this, even though I guess we could book you under treason for revealing government secrets. In truth, that's what we told your nurse, even though I doubt we would do that. We also told her she'll be sacked for breaking doctor-patient confidentiality and she'll never work in Korea again, but I think she thinks we'll kill her if she reveals anything, so hopefully she'll stay mum on the topic."

"You guys wouldn't do that...right?"

Inguk shoots him a very obvious look, one he doesn't like. "Howon, we're talking a worldwide panic. We would do that, and even more."

It feels really horrific, that he could cause someone's death just for his own secret, that he could cause massive trouble worldwide even, and bile rises in your throat.

"Well, uhm, I guess it doesn't matter anymore anyways..."

"Yes, I heard. I talked to your parents. Still, the effects are still to be seen. As your nurse said, you weren't pronounced medically dead, so we can't be sure yet if you really left the world of the living or not."

That's true. Of course it's true. But that doesn't mean he wants to hear it.

"Look, Howon, I'm glad you're okay. Or, er, going to be okay. And trust me, I don't want to be this person, but it's my job to be honest about the situation, and I've been given orders to tell you all of this, okay? You're not in trouble, minus this lecture, but if anyone else ever finds out about this, even if you do somehow manage to get matched due to recent events, the government isn't going to be happy, okay?"

It's a huge burden to carry, and his stomach flips at the thought of Seungah and, oh god, Sungjong (even if Sungjong didn't believe his story), two people he had told and are now potentially on some spy's hit list because he trusted them.

"I got it," he answers, surprised by his ability to even find his voice at the moment, and Inguk nods once, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as if he has a terrible headache.

"God, kid, you scared me. Scared us! Seungah stormed up here after they called Jungho to let him know what happened, and security had to drag her out. They wouldn't let her see you because you weren't family, and she didn't go down without a fight. It's a good thing she didn't get arrested. But, Christ man, didn't you learn to look both ways before crossing a crosswalk when you were a kid?"

"I was sick," he mumbles, and he sounds like a scolded kid even to himself.

"Yeah, Seungah told me. You got it pretty bad, huh?"

And then all the thoughts are back, the thoughts of Sungjong and what they could be, and he opens his mouth to let it all out, but Inguk stops him short.

"Look, look, I know what you're going to say, but I don't want you to jump to any conclusions."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean- okay, let's say it's true, you died and went to heaven or wherever and then boom, you're reunited with your spirit. Let's say that that's even what the problem was this whole time! Okay, so now you're going to get a letter, right? But that doesn't mean his name is in your letter. It could be someone else. You could still be a mis-match. You could still be soulless. Shit, you might be matched, but to someone else entirely. You need to wait and see, man."

Fucking hell, he had forgotten about that completely. He was so caught up in being Sungjong's match, in now knowing he was Sungjong's match, that he forgot that it still could turn out differently. He could be the one who's matched to someone else, in love without a second glance back at Sungjong if he meets his person, and god, does he feel terrible for all that shit he accused Sungjong of. He fucked up majorly, so majorly, and even if he meets Sungjong again, how does he make it all up?

"The withdrawals, though."

"It could be just a coincidence. I mean, it's pretty much like the flu, anyway. Can you be absolutely certain you just didn't get sick, especially since you weren't eating or sleeping normally? Until you have that letter in hand, there's no guarantee. Not to mention, if the fortune-teller is right, I mean, everything could change if you suddenly have this new fate, right? Hell, maybe you were meant to be matched to someone else, but since you had this thing with Sungjong you got distracted and didn't notice."

Well, no, he can't be one hundred percent positive it was withdrawals. If anything, the idea didn't even cross his mind until Seungah put it there, though of all people, she would know. And yeah, there's that possibility, too, that he's basically a new person, and fate could rearrange his whole life, if he has his spirit back. But was there anyone else he was away from for long enough to trigger the withdrawals? The Triumph guys were in Japan, but he's never passed a second glance at any of them, never felt that pull. Everything is so confusing.

Oh, and...

"His parents..."

"Exactly. Now, it's not a given he'll be mis-matched just 'cause they are, but the odds certainly aren't in his favor."

And as much as he loves Inguk, he always does this, always takes a good moment and comes in with logic and truth and fucking disrupts his happy little dreamland he creates, and it's just so much right now, too much, that he doesn't even care if he shuts down and wants him to go away.

Inguk talks about this and that for a little longer, but he finally takes the hint, and he hugs him, awkwardly at best and yet it still makes him want to cry, and then he's gone, leaving him to his own thoughts. He has no idea about how this is going to work out; if anything, he doesn't think it will.

* * *

He's so lucky, is what the nurses keep telling him.

As he looks in the mirror on the back of the door in his bathroom, he guesses he can see that. The jagged line of stitches stretches down his torso, across his side, and onto his back, but the sutures are clean, and the wound doesn't swell. He's bruised, on both sides, his left side a mess of deep black from the truck's front end, his right side a light yellow and green where he hit the pavement. His arm has a slight road rash, the result of it curling up to protect his head from impact and sliding on the pavement due to force, but it barely even hurts. And best of all, despite everything, here he is, 39 hours post-trauma, standing on his own, able to walk and talk and breath with no help, no long-term effects. Really, the two biggest issues he has is the fact he can't sleep on his side like normal and that he's going to be peeing blood for the next week or so. Lucky is probably a pretty good word to describe it.

But he doesn't feel lucky at all.

* * *

Four days after the accident, they finally let him leave, and the freedom is delicious. He still walks slowly, trying not to move his torso and pull at the stitches too much, but all in all, he feels relatively fine for someone who got hit by a car less than a week ago.

Once they take him off the pain meds, all the pain comes back, including the withdrawals, or whatever they are (suck on that, Inguk). The nurses look at him sympathetically, giving him this advice and that, but nothing seems to help, and he almost welcome the discomfort. It's a good sign. It means, somewhere along the way, he's met his match. And it has to be Sungjong. Who else could it be besides Sungjong? Please let it be Sungjong.

The whole ride home he keeps thinking about that, but then the pendulum swings back, and he remembers Sungjong's words about never wanting to see him again. Sungjong can have a temper, but he rarely says things he doesn't mean, and he was as serious as ever then. But, if they are matches, there's no reason not to be together. And then there's Inguk's voice, haunting him, the repeated reminder of " _matches don't entail harmony, that takes work, you know_ " and shit shit shit, why can't he just have normal circumstances in his life? Every positive thing he can think of is squashed by some little buzzing in his head that shows him the downside of everything, and he feels like a boat lost at sea, riding to the top of a giant wave before tumbling down again.

His parents drop him off, promising to stay for a bit longer, but he can't imagine needing them for anything. He might be a bit slow on his feet, but they have lives and jobs and his brother to get back to, and they are needed in infinitely more important places than essentially watching him bumble around his apartment all day. He promises to call if he needs anything, and they wish him farewell, two warm hugs around his neck making him feel all fuzzy inside. No matter what else happens, this has undone years of damage to his relationship with his parents, and he acknowledges the blessing in that.

His apartment is spotless (mom just couldn't help herself, apparently), but it seems overwhelmingly empty, and all the relief of being back floods out in a second. He sits on the couch for a while, having no idea what to do with himself, where to even begin to pick up the pieces, and he starts in the most logical place: the kitchen. There's no point in planning out life-changing moments on a hungry stomach, and he opens the fridge, hoping for the best. His fridge is about as hollow as his stomach, and the cabinets don't turn up much anyways. At least there's a nice little cafe on the corner that he can waddle on down to.

He walks through the lobby of his apartment building, heading for the door, but circles back when he passes the mailbox. He might as well look, even though he usually only gets junk and the occasional bill, but it's been nearly a week since he checked it, and he shuffles through his key ring, unlocking the box absentmindedly. His hand slides in, reaching toward the back, when he feels a shock of static electricity, and his hand jerks back.

He crouches down slowly, looking into the box, but all he sees are the usual envelopes. He figures it must have just been the metal of the mailbox, but he reaches in again and realizes exactly what he just felt.

The second touch feels very warm, and an inexplicable happiness he can't explain rushes through him. His hand rips out of the box, flinging the rest of his mail on to the ground, and there it is, midnight blue and heavy in his hand. It feels like he's holding the beating heart of his lover in his palm, and he turns over the paper slowly, delicately breaking the seal on the back. His hand trembles as he slides out the sheet inside, and his eyes drift across the glinting white scrawl of someone or something's neat handwriting.

He slumps to the ground, not even minding the jarring of his bones, the way his bruises and stitches protest at the impact, and his head slumps to his chest. He doesn't even care if he's half-laughing, half-crying in a heap on the floor of his apartment lobby, letter clutched to his chest possessively. He probably looks crazy as hell, but it doesn't even matter.

He's never been so happy to see the name  _Lee Sungjong_  in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I really predictable? Did everyone see this coming? Probs


	8. Chapter 8

The door to Jungho's office slams open much harder than he had anticipated, bouncing off the wall with hinges protesting, but he walks right in, unimpeded. He doesn't have any more time in his life to waste.

"Where's Sungjong?" That's how he is right now. Prompt. Succinct. A little rude maybe. Okay, a lot rude maybe.

Jungho, on his part, seems fairly calm considering the abrupt intrusion and lack of manners, and he turns in his chair, lips pursed in thought.

"Hoya. Good to see you. Great to see you actually. I'm glad you're already up and walking about. I was extremely worried."

The fire in Howon's heart dulls a bit, all thoughts of being a fury of plans and actions discarded momentarily, and he sits down in the seat across Jungho's desk. Before anyone else in Seoul, Jungho knew him first, and lately he's forgotten that he wouldn't have a job, an apartment, a livelihood without him. Not to mention a confidant, a father figure, and a mentor, all in one.

He wouldn't even have Sungjong.

That fact hits him like a tidal wave, and before he knows it, he's across Jungho's desk, dragging him up into a bear hug, crying against his shoulder. He's never been super touchy-feely, but he just needs to hug this man right now. He's the reason Sungjong is even in his life. He's the reason everything he's ever hoped and dreamed for (love included) is within his grasp. And that just makes him so happy.

"Are you okay?" Jungho muffles, words coming tight out of a squeezed chest, and Howon can feel his hand hover over his back before awkwardly patting his shoulder. This type of thing would never happen between them, should never happen, but it is right now.

"I'm sorry. I've cried more in the last week than I think I have in my whole lifetime," he says, pulling back and returning to his seat. He knows, absolutely, positively is aware of just how giddy and hyper and soppy he's being, but how could he not be? He feels like a whole new person.

Shit, maybe he  _is_  a whole new person.

Okay, he's definitely a new person. Not that he's changed inside. Or at least, not all of him. He's still Lee Howon, a man who loves dancing more than anything, who constantly pushes himself to achieve his dreams, who generally isn't a huge hugger or talker, who hates wearing his glasses. He still wants to do stuff by himself, to prove to his parents he can do anything, but maybe, he doesn't mind asking for help when he's stuck, or calling his parents just to see how they're doing. And maybe, maybe that is because he got hit by a truck because he was being careless and that gave him a new fate and a new life or whatever. But maybe, it's just because he's realized he has a whole lot of people who love him, people who have tried to get in and understand him for years while he's put up walls, and it's okay to show a little vulnerability in front of those people sometimes; there's nothing wrong about that at all.

Especially with Sungjong.

"Jungho, I need to know where Sungjong is. I really need to talk to him. As soon as possible."

Jungho's always had a poker face, never revealing too much of what he's thinking, and Howon can only see a hint of something. Disgust maybe? No, it's not that severe. Disappointment, perhaps. It's probably more fitting.

"You know, Hoya, Sungjong is my brother's son. I've obviously lived away from him for a lot of his life, and I'll be honest when I say that he and I aren't going to stay up late into the night swapping personal stories. But I still love him, very much, and while I don't know what happened between the two of you, and trust me, I don't think I even want to know, what I do feel is that maybe it's best this separation continues."

"But-"

"Ah. Listen to me, please. Sungjong is very headstrong, very tough in general. And for him to run away from a dream...it's really shocked our family, to say the least. You are my employee, almost like a son to me really, and I really, really would like to stay out of the personal business between you two, for multiple reasons. But to do that, I can't tell you how to reach him; this is between you two, and if one of you isn't consenting to talk, it's not my right to intervene just because I care about the two of you. Or, I guess I should say, just because I happen to know how to get in touch with the both of you."

Howon's not sure about how he feels about what he's about to do, but it's the only thing he can think of, and he reaches into his jacket, pulling out the envelope and plopping it down in front of Jungho.

Jungho eyebrows rise just a bit, barely enough to notice, but he doesn't pick it up. "I'm going to assume the reason you're showing me your letter is to prove why you should be informed of Sungjong's whereabouts. Is it him, then? I always thought you were matched to someone else..."

"It's complicated."

Jungho leans back in his chair, thinking it over, and he looks unsure, at best. " Hm. Do you know Sungjong's situation-"

"His letter has my name in it."

"Oh, well. Really? That is fortuitous. So he's not a-"

"No, he isn't." And for some reason, that feels really good to clarify. Sungjong has a match. Sungjong is not mis-matched. Sungjong has him.

"Oh. Well. Hm. Not to, um, pry, but if you two are matched, then why the running off bit?"

He could sit here, spend an hour or so explaining this, that, and every which detail there is, but he's a little on the impatient side, and he leaves out a bit. Or a lot.

"My previous name is listed on his letter. I wasn't aware until recently my name had been changed, so we both thought he was matched to someone else, and the resulting conversation was...unpleasant, to say the least."

"Yes, ah, I could see how that might go, yes. That probably explains the sudden return to back home. Well, I must say, I can completely understand why you might want to go, but I'm still unsure..."

"Hyung, please." He's not afraid to beg right now. In fact, he'll get down, forehead pressed to the floor, and grovel until Jungho sees just how serious he is about this.

" Why wouldn't the name you have be on it, though? Are you absolutely sure it's actually you?"

He wants to answer that, but he falters, looking for the right words. It's nearly impossible to articulate, and truthfully, he can't even really explain how Sungjong might feel, but something is there, some pull, some attraction he knows exists between them. It's so strange to think about in his mind; there's no description. He can just feel it, feel this burning need to hold and love and possess and talk to, and nothing else with satiate it. No one else besides Sungjong could ever fulfill the burning need he has.

"Do you ever...I mean, well, it's like...you just know, right? Like, all your selfish thoughts go from 'I want this' and 'I'm going to do this' to 'we want this' or 'we should do this', but you don't even remember it happening. And like, when you pass them by, or when you're somewhere with them and you see them at a distance, maybe they're talking to your friend or something, you do a double take, because it's just so damn nice to look at them. And sometimes, it's not like the movies, where you feel this constant stream of 'I love you so much you're so perfect you're just amazing', it's just comfortable, just sitting on the couch like two ordinary people, enjoying the silence. But sometimes it is like that, like when you wake up in the middle of the night and you look over at them and your chest swells because you're just so grateful they are in your life and that you're together out of everyone else in the world. I need to get Sungjong back, because no matter what, I'm always going to be searching for him, and if I have to walk the whole earth just to find him, I'll do it. Because he is that to me, he is my person. So please, hyung. Please."

It's so unlike him, to be this verbose, to be this  _open_ , and it's a bit hard to get out, but he has to. He absolutely has to prove that he and Sungjong are meant to be together. That this isn't some foolish playing around or obsessive fascination. This is real.

Jungho seems awestruck for a moment, as if he isn't believing what he's hearing, but he nods once in understanding. "Okay, Howon. But I'm trusting you here. If you do something...just don't even come back, do you understand? If you go and he doesn't want to see you, you leave him alone. Got it?" he says, typing out the directions from Gwangju's train terminal.

He doesn't think that will happen (prays it won't) and he stands up quickly, bowing deeply from the waist, before near running out, mind focused on one thing.

He has a date with destiny, and he doesn't want to be late.

* * *

He barely makes it to the train in time.

He makes a judgement call to run back home and change (he's still in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, the clothes he wore home from the hospital) and he takes the quickest shower of his life, breathing hard when the water pounds his still bruised skin.

He hits the subway, managing to catch all his connecting trains to Yongsan Station without a hitch, and he barely keeps himself from sprinting across the lobby of the station, protesting stitches aside. It's already 3:48, and the last train for the day leaves for Gwanju at four.

He nearly slams his money down, frightening the girl reading a magazine behind the glass, and she jumps, looking up at him.

"Can I help you?" she asks, righting herself and sending him an impertinent glance, obviously miffed by his abrupt appearance.

"I need a ticket. For Gwangju. Now." Okay, so he usually is this concise, but he's never this rude, and he almost doesn't blame the girl for being upset. But time is of the essence, and the minutes are ticking away.

"The train leaves in 9 minutes..." she says, a bit dumbfounded, and he can't help but throw his hands up.

"I know! And if you help me here, I can make it! So please, hurry up."

She takes his money, mumbling about how it's not her fault he's running late as she prints out his ticket stub, and he grabs it from her hand, a quick thank you thrown over his shoulder as he dashes off, backpack hitting his sore back as he flies through the station. He's lucky it's a Sunday, and late in the afternoon too, because the station is fairly empty and only a few people shoot him dirty looks as he skirts around them. He's definitely not acting on his best behavior, but he has to get on this train to Gwangju ASAP.

He gets to his platform at 3:57, feet skidding to a halt as he looks for his correct entrance, and the last minute patrolman of the train looks him over skeptically.

"Passengers are supposed to be in their seats 10 minutes before departure."

"I know, I know! I'm sorry! Can I please get on?"

The man ushers him in, nodding his head in dismay. "You got real lucky today, kid."

* * *

It doesn't hit him until later, sitting idly on the train, watching the scenery pass by.  _Lucky_. People keep telling him he's lucky.

When he stops to think about it, it's weird. He made it from his apartment to the station in 30 minutes, a near miracle, and he didn't miss a single connecting departure. And, of course, he probably could have taken the bus, or just waited until tomorrow, but he feels he just had to go now, right now, and it all worked out. So yeah, he guesses he was lucky.

It's such a weird feeling. Luck, fortune, fate, whatever it is. He could used to feeling like this, if it keeps working in his favor.

* * *

It's nearly 8 when he gets to Gwangju, not exactly prime time for visiting hours, and he stops in the station's bathroom, once-overing himself in the mirror. He suddenly feels extremely nervous, pulling his shirt down to straighten out the wrinkles, and for the first time, he's a bit unsure. What if Sungjong actually doesn't want to see him? What if he turns him away, rebukes him, says he hates him and he meant it when he said he never wanted to see him again? That can't happen, not today, not with them being what they are, and yet the possibility turns over in his head. Really, anything could happen.

Of course, there are matches who don't get along. Ones who get married and subsequently divorced, practically hating their match while craving them desperately in the most dysfunctional of relationships. It's rare, but it happens. All those counter-arguments Inguk had said, all the talking points meant to illustrate to him that having a match wasn't the end-all, be-all of finding love in the world now take on a new meaning.

_It takes works, Howon._

That's right. Everything takes work, hard work, and he's not afraid of that. No, that's how's he been living for 22 years. He can do this. He has to do this. He just has to try.

Resolve steeled in his mind, he nods to himself in the mirror, one last brush of his hair to straighten it out, and he heads out. The map of his phone leads the way, turning down this road and that, and he gets on a bus, riding a while until the gets to Sungjong's neighborhood. The city is smaller than Seoul, but it's still pretty big, and he walks down a maze of side streets, passing people and stores along the way. He passes a market once, mind on his destination, when he has an idea, and he swings back around. He's already going to be rude enough as is, so he might as well soften the blow a little.

The melon is crazily overpriced, at best. It's one of those ones specially grown to look pretty (with a inconsequential taste), but it's a token of his goodwill, and he hopes the thought will be appreciated. He wants to show he's here to listen, to come in and be polite, not to mince words or attack. He's friend right now (much more than friend), not opponent.

Sungjong's building looks exactly like Jungho describe, big black numbers above the door, and he manages to follow someone in, looking inconspicuous as possible. He takes the stairs up to the third floor, body wholly protesting the day's journey, and he walks down the hallway, trying to catch his breath. The doors of various apartments pass by, until he get to Sungjong's. He looks back down, making sure if he's got it right, and can't help but laugh a little. He must not have noticed it earlier, in his haste to leave, but Jungho's directions show it clearly.

_328_.

It's just one of those things, those things that don't really mean anything at all, and yet they do. He stays staring at it for a moment, and it makes him calm down, for some strange reason. It's like a sign he should be here, as stupid as that is, and he rings the doorbell, awkwardly shifting the melon around until he finds a pose that he thinks doesn't make him look like a socially-inept fool showing up at his object of affection's house late in the evening without notice (even if that's kind of what he is).

He knows he definitely has the right place, because Sungjong bears such a striking resemblance to his mother that there's no way this isn't his house. She looks puzzled for a moment, taking in the melon in his outstretched hand and him in general, a little worse for wear considering recent events and a long train ride, before finally speaking.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, actually. I'm looking for my match. His name is Lee Sungjong."

* * *

Relatively speaking, it's hard to get rid of prejudices, and he can't help but study the apartment as Sungjong's mom makes tea. If anything, the apartment seems warm and homey. There are photos everywhere, mostly of Sungjong and his brother, but family portraits as well, scattered around the living room, stuck to the door of the fridge. Photos of two happy kids, two caring parents, a glimpse into a life filled with no apparent lack of love. He hadn't known what he had expected: maybe a family who never spoke to each, an apartment void of any warm feeling. But this, this is exactly what love gets you when you work at it. It's a reassuring feeling, that despite whatever obstacles he and Sungjong have faced, they can make it work, too.

"Well, naturally, I figured it had to do something with matches. I mean, for him to leave Seoul so abruptly, especially after he's been training for years now to audition, it was a shock. And of course, I remember...I remembered how it felt, so I didn't want to press..." she says as she places the tea in front of them, continuing where they had left off in the conversation.

He's not sure what to say to that, despite her seeming openness about her own match situation, and he takes a deep sip of his tea instead. He's showed his social awkwardness enough already, and he doesn't want to stick his foot in his mouth anymore than he has to. Relatively speaking, she had seemed surprised to see him, to learn her son had a match, and he figured (correctly) that she had no idea who he was, had never heard his name before in her life.

"I mean, as you said, you know Sungjong a bit. Very eager to help others out, well, as long as they don't annoy him too much! But really, he likes to care for the people he loves, and then it comes to himself and he is so...unwilling to let himself be cared for. He's always been very independent, very quiet, not necessarily an introvert because he's always had an easy time making friends and enjoyed spending all of his free time with them, but I've always felt he was a bit of a recluse. He's my own son, borne of my own body, and sometimes I feel like there is so much I don't even know about him, because he keeps a lot of it locked up inside. I mean, look at him now, ever since he got back home, he's been out every day, all day. He can't be seeing friends, because they're almost all gone now, off to college and such. I know he's been alone, wherever he's been going, but I just don't understand why."

It's definitely not a good sign. Sungjong is nearly impossible to crack, the vault inside of himself staying lock-tight unless he himself is the one to open it, and he seems more impenetrable now. It's going to make any explanation, any apology a thousand times hard to get across, but Sungjong has apparently completely shut-down.

"So he's said nothing about Seoul? Whatsoever?"

"Mm, no. He hasn't said much of anything, except what's done what done and there was no changing it. But, like I said, my husband and I both knew. We've been there before. I know the dull rage, the empty anger that consumes you for a while, until you learn to pick yourself up or someone shakes some sense into you. He's obviously very angry at the world right now, very bitter, and I had figured I'd let him run it off for a bit before sitting him down."

"Yeah...I've been there before, as well."

"Right. Now, I'm sorry to pry, Howon, but seeing as the name on my son's letter is Hodong...I'm a bit confused to why you're here. You do know that that is the name of his match, right?"

The words fly to his mouth instantly, to explain, before he remembers Inguk warnings. He doesn't want to endanger anyone else, but then again, this woman is (hopefully) his future mother-in-law, and she's probably going to find out anyways, right? So now seems as good as time as any.

It takes a long time to explain the whole story, nearly 45 minutes of him straight talking with limited interruptions, Sungjong's father coming in from work halfway and the round of introductions and a barebones backtrack dished out. He leaves almost nothing (glossing over Sungjong's sleepovers in the most PG way he can), embarrassed but wanting to illustrate the depth and desire and need he has for Sungjong. It hurts, to rehash the initial rage at his fate, to revisit his stupidity at handling the situation with Sungjong, but every part of the story is necessary.

By the time he finishes, Sungjong's parents are a bit blown away (he's getting used to that), and they immediately lean in toward one another, discussing in low tones that he can't pick up on, and on which he doesn't even try. It amazes him all over again, how good they look together, how in tune they are as they seemingly finish off each other's sentences, one adding in a thought and the other agreeing with a quick nod of their head. He's been so caught up for so long with this idea of a fated love that occurs and then all the pieces just fall into place themselves, but he's realizing again how he's had it wrong the whole time.

Sungjong's parents come to some conclusion, because they turn back to him with identical looks of seriousness on their faces, like something's been decided.

"I want you to know, that everything we've done for Sungjong is to protect him, okay? We've always worked in his best interests, to shield him for whatever injustices of the world we can, because we thought it would help him in the long run. Of course, now that's he an adult, he can make his own decisions, but we offered him choices we thought would best suit him."

Whatever they're getting at, it's obviously not positive. This doesn't sound good, at all.

"Okay? And what did he choose?"

"To go on a retreat."

Of course, he's heard of retreats. Some of the more religious people in the support groups he went to had been on them. Most of them were done by bigger church outreach groups; he's never been particularly religious himself, never associated with any of them, but he does know the groups are meant to be a comfort to the people who patronize them. If anything, he heard mostly positive things, that the retreats were held off the grid in lovely places in the mountains, or on the islands, and that they focused on self-healing and coming to terms with the situation through prayer and meditation. The first two months themselves are lived in complete isolation from the outside world, no communication with even family unless there's an emergency.

The only drawback, a controversy well-publicized in the media, is the fact that the majority of them don't allow the participants to leave until the staff have approved of their growth and think they're subsequently capable of handling their situation in their daily lives, leaving some people to be stuck there for months, or even years, never reaching the level of coping that the staff have expected of them. Though people sign waivers agreeing to it, opponents of the system protested it as coercion of emotionally despondent participants, and the public's been torn ever since.

"So you sent him to a prison essentially?"

"It was his choice-"

"You knew what could happen! How bad is he?"

Sungjong's parents exchange a look that tells him everything.

"He's really bad, then." It's not a question, by any means.

"He wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping. He was just walking around aimlessly, bitter at the world, wasting away. He's always found comfort in church, so we discussed it, and he agreed. We did what we thought was best."

"Okay, well, now he's gone, off in the middle of nowhere, and now we're both going to get worse, because we're separated!"

"Well, he's not gone yet."

"What?"

"They all met in Naju, from all over the country; there have apparently been miracles there, a statue of the Virgin Mother that cries blood, and tears, so they met there to pray. I mean, we're not Catholic, but the organizers suggested it, so he decided to take part in it. Anyways, they've been there for a few days, allowing time for everyone to get in. Tomorrow they're going off, to one of the islands, I think. He hasn't left yet."

"Well, what are we still here talking for? Let's go get him back!"

* * *

The car ride to Naju is only around 20 minutes, but it feels like an eternity to Howon. Every kilometer seems to stretch out before him, road elongating to create an impossible distance between himself and Sungjong, and his palms grow sweaty, sliding against his the fabric on his knees as he wipes them against it. He doesn't even know what to say, how to even begin, and now he has to do it in front of a bunch of strangers, and his match's dad. Yeah, no big deal.

The church is relatively small, and he can hear singing from outside the door. He tries to be as respectful as possible, following Sungjong's dad in, and Sungjong's dad pulls him over to a man sitting by the door, talking in hushed voices to not disturb the singing group until the man motions both of them outside. He tries to find Sungjong in the group, but the room is dark, only illuminated by candlelight, and he can't tell one person from another in the shadows.

"So let me get this straight," says the man, obviously a bit miffed at the intrusion, "your son's match just suddenly shows up, tonight, out of the blue, and you want him back now. Are you sure he's your son's match?"

Howon fishes out his letter, displaying it the man, and he looks it over, obviously not convinced.

"Okay, but what about your son's letter? Are you sure they are a match? What's your name, son?"

"I've seen his letter! It says Lee Hodong. That's my birth name. We're matches."

The director scoffs at him, shaking his head. "I knew this was a waste of time. We record every match down for record-keeping, and that's not the name on Lee Sungjong's letter. I'm sorry you're misinformed, but you have it wrong. Now, please, leave us to our prayers undisturbed."

Mr. Lee and he stare at each other blankly for a moment, trying to figure out what this guy is saying.

"I'm sorry, I've seen my son's letter a hundred times since he got it when he was 17 and I know for a fact it says Lee Hodong on it-"

"Look, I'm telling you, I just looked at it not 20 minutes ago, and it does not say Hodong."

"Let me see it then," says Sungjong's dad, obviously growing impatient.

"I can't do that."

"I'm his father!"

"And he's an adult. I can't allow you to look at it without his consent-"

"Then go get him!"

They both wait in suffocating silence while the man walks back inside, grumbling about the disturbance, and it's a minute before he reappears, a perplexed Sungjong in tow. Sungjong sees his dad first, face growing more confused, and then he sees him. His face shuts off, all emotion disappearing, and his eyes narrow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" It's not the greeting he wanted, but it is the one he expected.

"This guy here says he's your match, but he has the wrong name, and your father's backing him up, insisting his name is correct. Anyways, they made me drag you out here to prove it, so go ahead."

"That's right, he does have the wrong name. Sorry, Lee Howon, I don't know how you got here or why you wasted your time, bothering my parents, but you can go home. I said I didn't want to see you anymore."

The director looks confused, eyes shifting between Howon and Sungjong, and he clears his throat. "Uhm, I'm sorry...isn't his name Hodong?"

"No," Sungjong replies obviously, ever-present eye roll added for effect regardless of who he's talking to, "this is Howon."

The director stares at Sungjong like he's completely lost all sense. "Okay, if he's Howon, and he has a letter with your name in it, then couldn't he be your match? Lee Howon is the name in your letter-"

The director doesn't get to continue, because all hell breaks loose, and Howon, Sungjong, and Mr. Lee are all talking hurriedly at the same time.

" _He has a letter with my name in it_?"

" _It says Howon_?"

" _Let us see the letter!_ "

The director throws up his hand defensively, taking a step back, and they all continue speaking at the same time, words running over each other, muddling what they're trying to say. More people come out of the church, apparently distracted by the noise, and soon there's a crowd around them.

"Okay, okay, hold on a moment. Sungjong, are you saying you will allow them to see your letter?"

"Yes!"

The director motions to someone on the side with a hand wave, and they run off into the church, all while the three of them are still going on. The woman runs back out, Sungjong's letter in hand, and they all crowd around it, eyes straining to read in the dark.

_Lee Howon._

He feels faint, like his legs are going to give out at any moment, and he nearly does, until someone grabs him, no, not someone, Sungjong, and the feeling is like a jumpstart to his heart. His body feels illuminated, blood rushing in his veins at the speed of light, and nothing else in the world, not the mess of people around him, not Mr. Lee and the director speaking in aggravated voices to each other, none of it matters. The only thing that exists right now is Sungjong, fingers tight around his wrist, and when he looks him in the eyes, his stomach flips over. He's simply the most perfect thing he's ever seen.

"How?"

It's Mr. Lee that asks first, and the answer is already on his lips, obvious to him. "I died. That's how."

Mr. Lee's already heard the story, but both the director and Sungjong say "what?" at the same time.

"I died! I died, and it all came back, and my name...it's tied to it...and it changed! That's how. Because I died!"

He yells out the last bit, the crowd around him whispering to themselves as he raves, and he laughs, pulling Sungjong against him, and he doesn't care if the whole world were watching him right now. Everything came together, everything worked out, and now there's no impediment to their match. Everything is perfect.

He doesn't know how long his sits there, but Sungjong doesn't make any attempts to break away from him, his own arms warpped tightly around Howon's waist, and it isn't until Mr. Lee taps him on the shoulder, bag in hand, that he realizes everyone else has dispersed, and they've been standing in the courtyard alone.

"Alright, you lovebirds. This is real cute and all, but it's almost midnight, and I'd like to go home. Can you two just snuggle in the car?"

* * *

The ride back to Gwangju is silent, both of them staring at each other like they're seeing each other for the first time. There's so much he wants to say, needs to say, but the drive (and Mr. Lee's presence) is a blessing in disguise. They're letting it all sink in, that they're together, and will continue to be together, and his hand slides across the seat between them, searching for Sungjong's. He's still a bit surprised when Sungjong takes it, squeezing it once, and it feel so, so right to weave their fingers together.

When they get back to Sungjong's, Sungjong's mom is still waiting up, along with his brother, and there are happy hugs all around as Mr. Lee explains the confrontation with the director. They all mill around for a while, not sure what to do or say that hasn't already been said or done, and eventually the rest of the family says goodnight, going off and leaving just the two of them in the kitchen.

"Here, let's go in my room and talk, I don't want to disturb anyone else," Sungjong suggests, dragging him along.

Sungjong's room is exactly what he would expect from Sungjong: simplistic in decor, overly messy, and somehow completely comfortable. He tries not to laugh when Sungjong scurries around, kicking dirty underwear under the bed, picking up discarded trash and throwing it into the bin, removing clean laundry so he can sit down at the desk chair. He knows he can tell Sungjong that it doesn't matter, to not worry about straightening the bed or putting away the books strewn everywhere, but he finds the whole thing a little endearing, the way Sungjong's worried about his appearance, and he lets him fret, eyebrows turned down in consternation when he unearths a ominous looking bowl from under the bed that he doesn't manage to toss back before Howon sees it.

When he finally finishes his flurry of activity, Sungjong sits down on the freshly made bed, hugging a pillow to his chest, and neither of them makes a move to speak. It's an odd sort of comfortable discomfort: the scene in the courtyard, the ride back home, it felt so nice to hold each other the whole time, to breath in the new changes. But now, the lingering discussion is upon them, the time to acknowledge mistakes, and even though he knows he should start first (being the main instigator here), Howon still hesitates, countless hours wondering what to say still leading to a blankness in his mind.

Sungjong, ever willing to sacrifice himself for the preservation of others, throws him a rope. "Explain...this."

"This?"

"Yes, this. This...showing up to my house unexpectedly. Having a letter appear I've never seen or heard of before, because last I heard, you "didn't have one" apparently. You going off about dying and that solving everything, and how it relates to my letter changing.  _That_  this."

He had forgotten he had only told Sungjong bits and pieces, that Sungjong thought up until an hour ago he was mismatched to someone else, and that Sungjong probably didn't believe too much of what he said last time they spoke. It's already one in the morning, and it'll probably take a good hour to discuss just his backstory and nothing else, factoring in the questions he's sure he's going to get, but fuck it. Why not now?

It takes an hour and seven minutes, and Sungjong doesn't ask a single question, doesn't even say a single word. He lets him talk, starting all the way back to that day in middle school, to when he first learned about what a soulless was, to him step off the curb without looking, and waking up in the hospital. Every secret, every fear and worry, he lets out, spilling them all to Sungjong as he patiently listens.

"Well, that is...quite a story. I'd like to call you stupid, for about a thousand reasons, but I'll save it for now. So Inguk is...?"

"My psychiatrist. Also, my handler, I guess. But mostly, my friend. That's how I like him best, until he pulls out the whole psych 101 crap."

"Mmm, I see. Well, I always did think he was a little eccentric, in an educated way."

"Yeah."

"And you're really the only person ever?"

"That's what they think, yeah."

"So you died, and that apparently fixed it. And you never had any sort of fate or luck or anything before that? That's crazy."

They lapse into silence again, before he tosses caution to the wind, hoping he doesn't put his foot into his mouth, or hell, in his case, shove it down his throat like normal.

"I'm sorry, Sungjong. I mean, I'm more than sorry, really. I can't even take back what happened-"

"It's okay, hyung."

"It's not okay," he says, aggravated by Sungjong's dismissal of the whole debacle, "and you shouldn't ever say it's okay. I fucked up, and admitting that isn't going to hinder our relationship. In fact, not admitting it, not talking about, will hurt us a lot worse. I know, that it all feels great right now, like a big sigh of relief, but I need to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being an ass, because I got so used to just worrying about myself and only myself, I didn't think about how my actions would affect you. And there will probably be a lot of times I say something without thinking, that I'm careless with my words, but I swear, Sungjong, it's you and me now, and I'm going to try my hardest everyday."

"I mean, it's not like I've forgotten about the incident. It's not like I'll ever forget, probably. But listening to your story, I can kind of understand it, I guess. Just like I would hope you'd understand my own reluctance and secrecy. We really do make quite a pair, you know, though I think your situation takes the cake. If anything, my own messed up letter was solely your fault, not that I blame you for dying on me multiple times. Besides, how many people can say their match went through hell and back for them, literally?"

"Hell? Whoa, there are a lot of assumptions there, how do you know I didn't go to Heaven?"

"Haha, okay, if that's what you want to tell yourself."

He's tried not to touch Sungjong during this conversation, knowing he'll get distracted, but he can't help from pouncing on him now, pushing him back into the bed and ruffling his hair as he pins him down, whispering about how disrespectful he is as he tickles his sides. That feeling is back, the feeling of his heart beating like the quickened tempo of a loud drum, and he wonders if it will ever stop. He might be okay with that, even when the distance between them makes him a little crazy.

Sungjong wiggles underneath him, catching his side with a knee, and he can't help but groan. His body is near ready to go on strike, a lack of sleep and constant running around taking its toll, and he flops over, thoroughly worn out.

"Shit, are you okay?" Sungjong frets, hands pulling up his shirt to see the damage. It's completely unnecessary, but he lets Sungjong's cool hands roam over the stitches, the bruises, comforting and stroking the marks.

"You really," Sungjong starts, swallowing audibly, "you really got hurt."

"It's not a big deal," he brushes off gruffly. It still hurts like hell, but it's all totally worth it, and he find it hard to complain about.

Sungjong leans over, placing one gentle kiss and another down the line of his stitches, and he fights the reaction to fist his hand in Sungjong's hair. It feels almost cheap to him, that despite all the emotional repercussions of the day, the talk they really need to have, not at 2 am, but when he can actually apologize and ask for forgiveness, despite all that, he can still want Sungjong so very badly. Abused body, the fact that they're in Sungjong's parents house, the fact that he's still kind of an ass and he probably don't deserve it for at least a thousand years, all that doesn't stop the desire is running heavy in his veins.

"Sungjong," he warns, just like that time that seems so long ago even though it's only been two weeks, and Sungjong slumps against him, face warm against his belly.

"I was just kissing it to make you feel better. Just like my mom used to do when I was little."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I think we should go to bed, seeing how it's nearly 2:30 in the morning, and we have a lot to do when we wake up tomorrow."

Sungjong doesn't protest the idea, rolling off the bed to get them pajamas and extra pillows, and he slips into some flannel pants of Sungjong's, the extra material bunching at his ankles, making Sungjong laugh. It's a little tight in Sungjong's bed, especially since he still can't sleep on his side, and Sungjong snuggles close, falling asleep almost immediately.

He lies awake for a while, watching Sungjong breathe easily against his chest, and he feels apprehensive in a weird sort of way. Sungjong's diversions, his attempts to not acknowledge that he's hurt inside, are a bit worrying. The words he said keep coming back, the notion that now it's the two of them, not just him anymore, and he prays, to whatever God is out there, that he can live that, that he can take his dreams and hopes and transform them to fit around Sungjong, his wants and needs and aspirations. Not even that, but that he can be there for him on a daily basis, be enough for him. He's been so used to just himself, gratifying his own future, that the idea of tomorrow, the day that starts the rest of his life, is intimidating, at best.

He presses a kiss to Sungjong's forehead, watching the corner of his mouth turn up in response in his sleep. He's just going to have to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I don't know crap about Christianity, hopefully this wasn't offensive?? Definitely not the intention  
> 2\. The [miracles](http://www.najumary.or.kr/English/) at the church in Naju are real life, I didn't make that up for plot, it's kind of interesting  
> 3\. This is a long chapter...holy cow  
> 4\. This will probably be extended to 10 chapters..........lol my b


	9. Chapter 9

Reality comes bright and early the next morning, waking him up like the most rude of wake up calls. His arm is pinned under a heavy Sungjong, hot and sticky against his skin, and Sungjong rolls against him, elbowing his bruises. Good thing the kid is worth it.

He manages to untangle his limbs from Sungjong without waking him up, and he heads off the find the bathroom. Business sufficiently taken care of, he heads back out, passing the kitchen, and Sungjong's brother, Sunkyu or something like that, stops him.

"Hey, hyung, you want some cereal?"

There are a few things Lee Howon absolutely loves in this world. Dancing. Lee Sungjong. And cereal. Hell yeah he wants some cereal.

They eat in companionable silence for a while, neither making a move to speak. Sunkyu is pretty close to his own little brother's age, but he's still a stranger, and what does one say to your match's younger sibling anyways? He feels incredibly awkward, but Sunkyu's going to be in his life for a long time, and he feels now might as well be a good time as any to get to know him a little bit. If only Sunkyu would speak first...

"So, hyung, what're your plans? Gonna hang around here for a while?" Sunkyu asks, draining the last of his milk. Thank god he seems sociable enough.

"No, we'll leave today. The audition Sungjong was going to go to is on Wednesday, so if we make it back today, he'll have time to rest and do some last minute practice before then, I think."

Sunkyu tilts his head a little, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Oh. You talked about this together? I mean, he came home from Seoul, I'm surprised he'd want to go back..."

Well, besides him, why wouldn't he want to go back? His life is waiting for him in Seoul.

"Yeah, but that was because of me."

"Are you sure, hyung?" Sunkyu looks completely skeptical. "I mean, Seoul is a big city. It's not like your little old village where everyone knows each other. Even though you work for Uncle Jungho, it would have been pretty easy to avoid you in a place like that, especially if he got in with a company, or a group. There has to be some other reason, than just you. Sungjong just doesn't give up over anything."

There's a lot of potential truth in that analysis, and Sunkyu  _has_  known him for 16 years, so that's saying something. Still, Sungjong has worked  _years_  for this, enduring long practice hours in the studio, worked through a whole summer with one particularly cranky Kim Sunggyu and his vocal lessons (not to mention the years during high school), and he wouldn't just walk away from that, right? He has to want to go back to Seoul, now that this is all figured out. He has to.

It would certainly explain Sungjong's unwillingness to talk about himself last night, to dismiss everything and say it's done and over with, and he wonders what the hell is going on. Something apparently made Sungjong leave, and it might have been him, but if Sunkyu's on to something here, it might have been something else, too. Either way, Sungjong's still carrying it around, and it's obviously weighing on him.

He takes his leave from Sunkyu, heading back to Sungjong's room with this new idea floating around in his head. Sungjong's eyes are open, but he's obviously not quite to the land of the living yet, and Howon sits down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his chest to ease him out of sleep. The content smile Sungjong gives him when he finally comes to is dazzling, and he hates to ruin it so early in the morning.

"Did you leave Seoul because of me, or something else?" he asks, without a single reservation.

Sungjong's smile wavers, pulling down into a grimace, and his eyes stare up at the ceiling, avoiding looking at Howon.

"Did something else happen?"

Sungjong nods once, barely even noticeable, and there it is. The answer he didn't even know he was looking for.

He doesn't know if that makes him feel better or worse.

* * *

He doesn't push Sungjong to tell him, letting him get up and start his morning and just have a moment to decide if he even wants to say anything. Sungjong's completely silent, getting out his clothes for the day, and he opens the door to his room, jerking his head in Howon's directions to motion for him to follow along. He goes with Sungjong down the hall, back to the bathroom, and Sungjong opens the door ahead of him.

He looks around, as if he's afraid to be seen, and he hesitates outside the doorway, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Erm..."

Sungjong turns back around, shooting him a weird look, and he laughs, just a little, at his awkwardness. "They're not even home, idiot; Sunkyu's at school, and mom and dad are at work. Besides, where's your mind going? Don't you want to wash your face? Damn, if I had wanted morning sex, I would have stayed in my room with you."

He feels a bit silly, totally acknowledging he deserves the disgruntled look Sungjong gives him, and he slides into the bathroom after Sungjong. At least Sungjong can laugh a little, can laugh at all, and that's always a good sign, right? Particularly in times like now.

Sungjong strips down, and he tries his very best not to stare. Of course, he's seen it all before, but now, it's, well,  _his_ , and he feels an animalistic pull somewhere deep inside him. That's his territory, his solace and comfort and home, and, damn, is it a nice sight to take in. Still, he doesn't want to look like a horny teenager, more interested in the physical than the emotional (even if the growing issue in his pants doesn't agree).

Sungjong shoots him that look again as he gets in the shower, the look that says "are you coming or what?", and he looks down, unsure of what to do. It's not that he necessarily wants to hide the scars and bruises and cuts from Sungjong (considering he saw a lot of it last night anyway), but he still has a self-conscious fear in him, that the whole thing, top to bottom, will be disgusting, or revolting. He's never one to be embarrassed about his body, for better or worse, but this is completely different.

Sungjong pokes his head out of the curtain, looking around, and he sees him, still hesitating to pull off his shirt.

"Hey, it's okay" Sungjong says, voice soft. "Here, come on, I'll help you clean up."

It's much more comforting than he thought it would be, and he's surprised at his own unresolved worries and fears. This isn't him, by any means, because he's always been Mr. Confident, at least in his appearance. But now, everything's change, and it makes him feel all jumbled up inside. Inguk's words come rushing back again, some bogus stuff about balancing healing others while simultaneously healing yourself, and he nods mentally to himself. Yeah yeah, Inguk, you win again.

The water is hot, but the water pressure isn't as intense as his own apartment, falling softly against his skin. Sungjong turns him around, fingers skimming over the still purple brusies on his hips and thighs, on his right shoulder, on his ribs, and he can hear him tsking softly to himself before wrapping his arms around him gently, letting the water fall over them.

"Where do you think you went? You really died then?"

"I have no idea. I wish I could remember, but the last thing I recall and the first moment of me waking up in the hospital seem just like a blink of an eye. Like I looked away for one moment, and when I looked back, the scenery had changed. Like it was nothing."

He keeps thinking about what Sungjong's mom said, about Sungjong's willingness to care for those he loves, but his reluctance to be cared for, and he knows Sungjong's playing 20 questions with him to stretch that out. And it's a tough balance, wanting to have Sungjong care for him, to let Sungjong learn his wounds (both physical and mental), to learn how he likes to be consoled. That's very important too, but he's starts to feel like the conflicting incidents here are leading to a round of the misery olympics, gold medalist still undecided.

So he skirts around the issue, not approaching it head on, but still bringing it up as subtly as possible.

"We should go back to Seoul soon. Probably today. At the latest tomorrow." Sungjong tenses against him, and he runs what he hopes is a soothing hand up and down his back.

"Is that too soon? I'd love to stay with your parents and get to know them, but your audition is in two days and-"

"I don't want to do it."

"Do what? Audition? Or go back?"

"...either."

He barely hears Sungjong's whisper over the beat of the water, and he curses Sungjong's desire to convene in a bathtub of all places, as comforting as the warm water is. He looks down, gauging the size of the tub, before flipping the switch, sending the water back through the spigot.

"What are you doing?"

"You wanted to get clean, I wanted to talk. Instead of wasting water, let's just take a bath and have all the uninterrupted conversation we want without draining the Yeongsan."

The tub isn't very long, but it's wide enough for both of them to sit almost comfortably, and he squeezes himself beside Sungjong, taking Sungjong's the heel of Sungjong's foot and pressing into the arch with his thumb. Sungjong eyes drift shut, leaning back as he groans in response. Who says he doesn't know how to comfort someone?

"I have to go back. I mean, not just go back, but like...be back. Seoul is where I belong." He can tell he pushes too far, because Sungjong's eyes scrunch up, and his mouth pulls down into a frown again. It's hard not to get frustrated, but Sungjong isn't giving him anything, and it's not like they can just sit here all day, meandering in the tub when there are decisions to be made and places to go. So he says that. He says exactly what he thinks.

Forgetting, naturally, that he comes off as an insensitive ass at times. That ends up being one of his more flawed moments in logic.

Sungjong's eyes fly open, and his mouth drops down, choked noise of anger croaking out. "Excuse me? Do you think this is a spa moment for me right now? If you didn't notice the lack of scented candles and little...cucumbers for our eyes or whatever, this is me trying to start my day and think about this situation we're in and give you some reasonable option we might have! Do you think I'm just screwing around with you?"

He feels a little ashamed, and he sits back, deciding to drop the pushiness and just let Sungjong go ahead with what he wants to do (why didn't he stick with that in the first place...?). It kind of kills him, because he's raring to leave, to get back to Seoul and get settled into his, wait,  _their_  apartment, and get back to work and get Sungjong to his audition and get on with their lives. But, that's just what he wants, and something something patience and work and blah blah blah, Inguk's voice in his head,  _man_  he's got to stop thinking about him.

Sungjong still doesn't say anything, time dragging on forever, and finally he just gets up, grabbing a towel as he slips out of the tub.

"Where are you going?" he asks dumbly, unsure of what he's supposed to do or say, and Sungjong turns around with a huff.

"To make breakfast. Come on."

* * *

He eats despite his already consumed cereal, unwilling to deny an aggravated Sungjong as he flings kimchi, rice, some soup, a sweet potato dish in front of him. Sungjong's movements are stiff and agitated, knife slamming down onto a cutting board, ladle clanging against the soup pot as he swishes it around, and Howon practically sits on his hands, not even breathing more than he has to.

It's not like he's afraid of Sungjong. Like everyone, Sungjong has moments where he snaps, and that's alright; everyone does it. What he's really worried about is his continued ability to say the wrong thing, to make the situation a thousand times worse by being too pushy or not sensitive enough, and he's afraid that if he opens his mouth again, something equally disastrous will come out, and that's the exact opposite of what they need now.

Sungjong finally sits down, a glass of orange juice dropped in front of him heavily, and he grabs his chop sticks, tearing into the food. He looks a bit vicious, stuffing a huge chunk of sweet potato in his mouth and mashing it loudly, and Howon can't help but feel like Sungjong's imagining it's him, like it's his head or heart or something, and he's ripping into it, trying to inflict as much damage as possible. It's overwhelmingly disconcerting, honestly.

He picks at his rice, appetite long since satiated, and the silence grows, Sungjong's heavy masticating the only noise in the kitchen. He meets Sungjong's eyes for a moment, receiving a look that would rival his mom's when she's angry at him, and his eyes shoot back down as he quietly nibbles on some kimchi.

Sungjong laughs once, a sound lacking any humor whatsoever, and then again, harder, sound masked by the food in his mouth. He swallows audibly, clearing his throat, before laughing again. Howon's heard that sound before, not in him but in other people, and he knows he's about to break.

"You know what's funny?" Sungjong asks rhetorically, and Howon knows immediately that whatever he's about to say is anything but funny. "You really want to know what's just absolutely, completely funny?"

Howon hums his answer, afraid to let him go off but knowing it has to happen, and Sungjong stares at the table, eyes suddenly distant. "You know, I worked for years,  _years_ , with this dream in mind. I left my home, went to a school in a completely different city, sacrificed and practiced and worked for this dream I had. And so maybe I was wrong, to set my sights on one specific company, but I thought I could make it."

 _Thought_?

"So imagine my surprise when I went into the studio to practice, and lo and behold, the vice-president of that company was there, in the studio! Apparently he's good friends with the studio owner, and he drops in to see what the talent's like. This is my chance, I thought, this is my opportunity to show off, maybe get some pointers. Of course, I was nervous, but he asked if I was going to audition for his company, if I'd let him see what I had to show. So I danced a bit for him, sang a bit after that. Did everything I thought I was supposed to."

Sungjong's jaw is quivering, but he's pretty sure it's not from unshed tears. No, he looks angry, furious even, like he's barely even controlling his rage, and Howon's stomach sinks. For Sungjong to go off like this, something really, really bad must have happened. He's never seen him like this before; usually, Sungjong won't let himself get like this, at least not in front of other people.

"Do you know what he told me? Do you know what he said?"

Of course, he doesn't know. He shakes his head, mostly to cue to Sungjong that he's listening, that he's here, and Sungjong throws his head back, staring at the ceiling. "He said, hah, he said that I had a pretty face. A very, very pretty face. And that that was the only thing I had going for me."

"That's not true-" he says defensively, wanting to go back to Seoul and find this guy and have a little discussion with him, a little discussion without any words involved, but Sungjong cuts him off.

"Don't get all mad yet! I haven't even gotten to the best part. He said that my dancing and singing weren't anything, but there was still hope for me yet, because of my face, and my body. He said I'd fit in just fine, because they could use someone like me to advance their group to the top."

The rice and kimchi lurches dangerously in his stomach, and he throws his chopsticks down in disgust. He can't believe that this...asshole, would be so ballsy as to straight face say that to him. If anything, Sungjong should have gone straight to the police. Of course, it's a fact of life for many idols, pimped out by their companies to wealthy sponsors to enjoy, and the police tend to look away, at least until the public catches notice of specific incidents. Sometimes, a kid is lucky enough to just be forced to show up at some chaebol billionaire's penthouse party and look pretty and flirt with a bunch of industrial magnates for a few hours. But more often than not, it goes way beyond that, and they both know it's true.

"I won't let that happen to you." It's a stupid thing to say, something he really can't promise, but he swears, with every fiber of his being, he'll protect Sungjong from as much as he can. No one's going to hurt him, if he can doing anything to help it. The issue is, is there isn't any help for it. Fuck.

"We both know you couldn't do anything to stop it. If they're going to use me, they're going to use me. And from what this guy was saying, that's all I'd apparently be good for in a group as is."

Sungjong has always had an amazing ability to not give a shit about other people's opinions; it's something Howon's always been amazed by. Not that he doesn't get angry, when someone says something he doesn't like, but he grits his teeth and goes on, probably saving the anger to punch into his pillow at a later time. If anything, Sungjong is a machine that turns negative comments into sheer willpower, and he's seen it in action, seen him be torn apart by Jungho, Seungah, even himself, and come back with a better resolve, sharper moves and more emotion. He can't even imagine how he is in the studio, with that instructor that he is so annoyed by.

But this, this is completely unlike Sungjong. He's gotten it under his skin, let it mark him like a permanent tattoo, and he's...well, he's damaged. Howon doesn't blame him; how fucking scarring is it, to be told that you have no skills and your only redeeming quality is the fact that you can be used like a pawn against your will, because a company essentially owns you. Not only to be told that, but to be told that by the very company who you had dreamed of performing under. It makes perfect sense why Sungjong would want to give up.

But it doesn't have to be this way.

"There are companies that aren't like that. Just look at Triumph. Not even their company, but I bet they know a bunch of them that don't do that shit. Just because-"

"Sure," Sungjong flails wildly, frantic hands almost upsetting the bowls on the table, "but what good am I to them then? If someone can't use me as some fuck toy, what purpose do I have? What can I possible bring to a group? I can't sing! I can't dance! My acting is nothing, and my looks aren't  _that_  unique. I have nothing to give to any company. Nothing. It was stupid to even think that I could."

It's so bizarre, to have Sungjong, the guy who takes anything dealt out to him and makes it his own, commands and controls it, cave underneath it all. Howon can deal with angry, deal with frustrated, irritated, just plain mad, but he just can't accept that that's that, that it's all done, dreamed stored away in a box in the back on Sungjong's mind as some youthful pastime. People can't just give up like that. 

"What if I had given up on my dream? We never would have met. I had to deal with a lot of unfortunate things along the way, but I just kept going. You can't just give up because one person."

Yeah, that probably _wasn't_ the right thing to say.

"Excuse me?" Sungjong asks, and his voice is so silently deadly that Howon knows immediately just how bad he messed up. "I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure you didn't have someone threatening you use your body without your consent to rake in money. How fucking dare you imply that just because you dealt with something, that I have to act just like you because you got lucky and it worked out! Jesus fucking christ, how self-centered can you be?"

He tries to reach out when Sungjong gets up, trying to bring him back, but Sungjong slaps away his hands, moving out of his reach, and he slams the door to his room shut so hard even the window above the kitchen sink vibrates with the force. He sits with his head in his hands, hurt by Sungjong's words; is he really self-centered? He's certainly trying to be accepting, to listen and learn, but he just keeps fucking up. Every time he has some idea, some solution that can help them out, it just drives an even bigger wedge between them, and he's afraid he's going to destroy them before they even have a chance. He has no idea what to do.

But he can think of a person that might.

* * *

His mom yells at him too, and he begins to wonder if he deserves it.

Of course, it would have probably been nice of him to call her, see how the family's doing, maybe casually mention he had finally gotten a letter and he knew the person who it was and everything in his life had seemingly fallen into place. Albeit, he's been really, really busy in the last 24 hours or so, but his mom doesn't see the logic in his excuse. Oops.

She finally calms down a little, after a good, long cry that makes him feel happy and sad and relieved and anxious and everything all at once, and he leans back against the railing of the patio off of Sungjong's living room, wondering what to even ask. He tells her the issue at hand, about Sungjong's reluctance to go back to Seoul, being as vague as possible mostly because even the thought of someone hurting Sungjong (someone even fucking touching Sungjong) makes him want to kill a man, but leaving her with enough of an idea that she can understand the dilemma.

"Well, I can certainly see why he doesn't want to go back," she muses, after thinking it over for a moment.

"I mean, yeah, I see it to, but..."

"But...? But what?"

"Well, I mean...we have to go back, of course." Obviously, mom. C'mon.

"Why do you have to?"

Why does everyone else not see this? It's Seoul. Everything's in Seoul. Even if Plan A doesn't work out, there's still Plan B, Plan C, there's a whole alphabet of plans. Why is everyone so quick to say they shouldn't go back?

"Because it's where-"

He pauses at that, because he was going to say "where I belong".

"Where what?"

"Where  _we_  belong."

It doesn't sound convincing, even though he really believes it. His mom isn't so swayed either, and he hears her hum deeply while she's thinking of what to say.

"Is it really where Sungjong belongs?"

"Yes! He's worked so hard for this dream-"

"Dreams change."

Okay, yes, that's true, but...

"Not overnight! Besides, if it were me, I would want him to push me," he mumbles, sounding a bit childish, but what else is he supposed to do here?

His mom laughs, and he has no idea what he just said that's so funny. He's just being honest, living by the golden rule and all (even if in reality he hates being pushed, but he'll begrudgingly admit that over the years Jungho and Seungah and Inguk have coaxed him into various things he's ended up being thankful for, so it's only fair he does it too, right?). In his mind, that's what a relationship is: you prop them up when they need a little help, slap a band-aid on their boo boos and kiss their forehead and help them get up and walk again.

"Oh, son of mine. One day, you'll understand."

It irks the shit out of him, because what the hell is he supposed to understand? He feels like he's 12 again, back when they were about to get the talk and everyone would condescendingly talk down to them. God, he thinks Inguk's pushed a whole textbook worth of information on him about love and relationships, and he's a fancy-shmancy psychologist. Why isn't what he's doing working out, and why is everyone getting on his case for going by the book? What the hell is he missing?

"Did you ever think that maybe that's exactly what he doesn't want to happen?" His mom sounds sincere, but the question still feels grating, at best. She doesn't even know Sungjong.

"No." Golden rule, mom. One of the biggest things they learned in ethics class. Even Buddha himself listed it as one his main pillars of life. "I thought that's how relationships are supposed to go."

"Supposed to? Every relationship is so different, that there's no one way, Howon. See, you're feeling sympathetic, but not empathetic, and if I had to guess, not knowing Sungjong but going off what you told me, I'd say that hurts him. Maybe if the roles were switched, you'd be okay with that, but for him, it's not enough."

"Does it matter? I thought those were kind of the same thing..." He asked what he should do, not for a dissertation about love and relationships, but she's a mom, and he guesses that's what moms do, so he listens up anyways.

"No, it's...hm. Basically, it seems like, to him probably, you're saying 'it's terrible what happened to you, I really feel that'. You see what he's gone through, and you're showing that you're also unhappy about it. But you're not saying 'this affects me too.' You're not sharing the actual pain, or the fear. You don't need to be fake and overdo it, but this affects both of you, and he's probably feeling a bit trapped. He's wanting to get away, to find a safe place, but you're basically telling him 'I can only see us going back'."

"So what am I supposed to do?" he says, feeling aggravated. "Am I supposed to go back to Seoul, pack up my stuff and quit my job?"

"Well, not necessarily, but-"

"So what am I supposed to do then? It's lose-lose!"

He hates being so snippy with his mom, especially since she's the type of person to sit back and take it and let herself be walked all over, something he's done way too often in the past. Still, nothing she's saying is making sense. He's supposed to do x, but it's negated by y, and how does that work out to any reasonable solution in the end?

"I get this sense," she starts after a moment, voice calm, "I get this sense that you think that everything is always going to work out win-win in the end. That you two are always going to be equal, that every situation will end up impartial to either of your feelings and neither party will feel slighted because you both get exactly what you wanted. I'm really sorry to disappoint you, but that's not going to happen. You can think of the 'we' as much as you like, but it's just going to frustrate you. You need to think of the 'I' sometimes, and sometimes the 'them' too. Sure, the golden rule is great for things like "don't forget to mention to your husband you have dinner plans later with friends so he'll be on his own" because you'd hate to come home to an empty house with no forewarning. Or "try to control your temper and not go off on them when you had a bad day at work" because you wouldn't like to be a punching bag, either. But that's just common sense. Situations like this...you need to learn how to help them heal, learn how to comfort them. See what you need, weight that against what they need, and see if you might have been being a little selfish. Every single person on Earth needs just a little bit different kind of love, and it takes time to grow accustomed to that. Trust me, there are four men in my life, and if I treated you all the same, or, god, the way I wanted to be treated by all of you, it'd be a disaster."

This is simply the most mind-numbing conversation he's had, because apparently every single thing he knew about love is wrong, and he can't help but sound a bit bitter when he says "that's not what I learned." His mom sighs, and he can tell she's smiling on the other side of the phone, which doesn't help his unhappiness at this damn discussion.

"Well, did you ever ask?"

They both know the answer to that question, so he doesn't even bother responding.

"You still haven't told me what I should do, mom."

"Go. Learn. Try and ultimately fail and realize that's not the path to take. Try again and see if it works, and if it does, you'll know the way to begin. You'll get frustrated, and he'll get frustrated, and you'll want to give up sometimes. It'll be unfair, because you'll think you're losing, but you'll learn how to balance, how to compromise and meet in the middle. You'll fight, for sure. But you're young, both of you, and you have time. Just listen, watch, think about him sometimes, even before yourself, even before the both of you as one entity. Thinking of him doesn't negate you. Thinking of him helps you see his side too, which helps you better come to terms with something that makes you both happy. I promise you, if you try, you can do anything you want to do. You just have to go in with the right mindset."

* * *

He feels much calmer when he approaches Sungjong's door, even apprehensively hesitant to disturb him. After some slight soul searching, sitting on the chair overlooking the street on Sungjong's patio, he'd decided to listen to his mom and attempt to go about it a different way. His mom is his mom, and while mom's aren't always right...well, he's learned over the last few years just how scarily accurate most of what his mom says is, and she definitely has experience in loving people under difficult circumstances.

He doesn't knock, quietly opening the door and slipping in, and if Sungjong hears him enter, he doesn't move from where he's turned to the wall, back facing the door. He almost thinks he's asleep, but when he sits down beside him on the bed, he can see his eyes are open, staring at the wall. He wonders if that's his plan, to just ignore him, but he doesn't shy away from him when he runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't move up into it either, like he usually does, but Sungjong has a nasty temper streak, and he's not afraid to let someone know when he's still unhappy with him. He's somewhere in between, and Howon can try to work with that.

"We don't have to go back." It's an white flag, an olive branch, and god, he just hopes it works out. Sungjong tenses beneath this hand, muscles bunching underneath his shirt, and he slowly rolls over, eyes narrowed.

"Do what?" There's some distrust in Sungjong's eyes, and he does his best to not take it so personally. Sungjong's whole life is a bloody mess, a mix of happiness and sadness, of joy and misery and dreams seeming to fall through his hands like sand, and he reminds himself that Sungjong's happiness is paramount to his. That's the goal here. Don't get caught up on the negative, Howon.

"Well, I have to go back. To pack up and what not. But if you don't want to live in Seoul, hell, if you don't ever want to step foot in Seoul again, you don't have to. We can go somewhere else."

"Like where?" Sungjong's voice is still hesitant, but he's definitely more alert now.

He's thought about this a lot, wondering what the possible scenario might be if they leave Seoul, if he leaves Seoul, and he thinks he has a good solution. "We could stay here. There are a bunch of dance schools in the city; I remember coming down with Jungho once, to see a local crew, and he has connections. If he's my reference, I can probably get in anywhere here. Same thing goes for Busan, and maybe Daegu. He knows places all around the country. Whatever you want to do, if you want to go to school, if you want to...I don't know, just take some time off, I can support you. I will support you."

"But you won't be working with groups anymore? You'll be teaching kids, probably. Are you really okay with that?"

It's a challenge, if he has to be honest with himself. Truth is, he already does teach kids, but that's for maybe three or fours hours a week, tops. Leaving Seoul, even if he goes to another big city, is seriously going to scale back his opportunities. He doesn't want to be bitter, to get down the road and blame Sungjong later for this, and the idea weighs on him.

Then again, there's a real joy working with the kids, because he remembers that stage of his life, and how important his mentors were to him then. Sure, he won't be able to say that's choreographed some award-winning number for the  _bonsang_ winner of the year, but he might be able to one day say "yeah, the main dancer for that group? I taught him everything he knows." He never did this for fame, barely even did it for money, and somehow the idea of leaving the city doesn't kill him like it might have three years ago.

"Yeah, I think I'm okay with that. More than okay. You know I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't mean it."

Whatever issues Sungjong still has with him, he apparently knows him well enough to know he's not much for lying, and he nods once, taking it all in.

"I was so worried- I was so afraid you'd come here and drag me off. I really don't want to rehash it, really, but I almost worried you'd be like...like when we last saw each other, in Seoul. How you didn't listen to me, you just did whatever you wanted to. Like, really, I guess I can kind of understand why you did it, in a way. But I just...I really hate that. I can't trust you if you don't listen to me as well."

It hurts, but he's glad it does, because he deserved that, and seeing the pain Sungjong felt over that will stick with him forever, reminding him of how he overstepped the line. Hearing it from Sungjong's perspective, he can totally see how he looks to him right now, how everything is his rules and his wants and his choices, and he knows it's going to be a long time coming before he can change that view in Sungjong's mind.

"I swear that's not me." It sounds weak, but it's true. He can be self-centered, after so long of only living for himself, but he's never intentionally been so blind to someone else's feelings (that scene in Sungjong's apartment was just an extreme moment in emotional irrationality, he swears), and though he still kind of wishes Sungjong could see his potential, could see how great he is and how well he'd be in a group, he's going to let him decide that, and he'll follow. "I swear I'll never be like that again. I promise."

Maybe Sungjong's dream did change. Maybe what happened to him is irreversible. Whatever it is, if he looks at the situation at hand, looks at Sungjong's perspective, from the viewpoint of getting away from Seoul, it makes him realize just how flexible he himself is (so that's what his mom was talking about...huh). He's been so caught living a cosmopolitan pipe dream that he forgot that his apartment and income and social setting weren't what was making him happy. Things like dance, like seeing somebody progress and learn, like seeing Sungjong happy and feeling comfortable, those intangible things are what's really important, and he can get that in a lot of other places besides Seoul. For whatever reason, he ended up with Sungjong, finally, and if fate, or whatever, brought them together to make him realize that, then he might be the luckiest man in the entire world.

"Are you really going to let me choose where we go?"

Sungjong's question brings him back down to Earth, and it takes a moment to sink in. "What, no. Who's self-centered now? We're going to decide together. It doesn't have to be done today, but we can start thinking. What I'm saying is, wherever you will go, I'll go with you. I'm following my dreams, but my dreams can be found in a million different places. So keeping that in mind, if we can go anywhere, where do you think you'd like to end up? Because I expect a lot from you, kid, so get your mind going, we have big things to accomplish."

Sungjong doesn't really smile, but it's close enough, and for the first time in hours he feels his heart unclench. There's still an overwhelming enormity he feels inside him, like he and Sungjong are in front of a great and towering mountain they must get to the top of, but they've already taken the first step, and that's the hardest part.

As long as they rely on each other, getting to the top shouldn't be that difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Hoya is the type of person to talk on the phone and stare into the receiver cross-eyed with a perma-grumpy face and be like "no, go on, I'm listening" when he tunes out because he doesn't care about what someone's saying anymore.
> 
> If he'd been on the phone with Inguk you bet your ass that's how that scene would have played out


	10. everyone has a future

_Seoul, 2018_

"Where do you want this one?" Inguk asks, fishing a frame out of the box in the middle of his new living room, holding it up to roughly estimate the size against the furniture in the area.

"Which one is it?" he calls from the kitchen, busy unpacking the utensils they'll need when the take-out gets here, washing two sets of chopsticks and some bowls quickly in the sink. He still hasn't found the cups, meaning they'll have to drink straight from the bottle of soda for now, but he sincerely doubts Inguk will mind.

"Uh, it's Sungjong, with a bunch of girls. A whole gaggle of them. They're wearing very skimpy looking outfits. What the hell is this photo?" Inguk answer back, and he just knows Inguk's face is probably pressed to the glass, ogling it and fogging up the frame. He leaves the dishes on a towel on the counter, coming up behind Inguk and plucking the photo out of his hand.

"Hm, this is when we were in Japan. After we left Gwangju, when Jungho got me connected and sent us over there to help with the filming of that huge ass girl group's music video. Despite the, uh, language barriers, Sungjong and... pretty much all of them got along splendidly. He knew the whole dance better than I did."

"You made the dance for...them?"

He's fairly certain he's told Inguk this story before, and he stares at him through narrowed eyes, having a sincere feeling that his face is doing a fantastic job of illustrating his annoyance with Inguk's shenanigans.

"Very funny. I did the choreography for the male back up dancers, and all the break dancing sequences they had, for whatever reason. Sungjong just happened to be with me, and we were on the set for like three days straight, so he got close with the girls, and the rest is history."

"Oh, these are the girls that changed his mind about entering the music scene."

"No, no, that was the concert I danced for in America. I mean, maybe this one did too, because he saw behind the scenes and all the glamour and what not, but I think the concert is really what changed his mind. I got backstage passes for a guest, and he got to see a performer's eye view of the crowd, and he was really moved. Here, I think that picture's in the box too," he says, digging around and pulling it out. "I think they should go over the side table, on the right side."

Inguk doesn't move, photos in hand, and he starts making a low humming sound of disapproval, not saying anything, just gradually getting louder and louder. Howon knows he's just waiting for him to ask what's wrong, and he doesn't even try to hide his disdain.

"What?" It comes out rough, but Inguk just grins, glad to have him cave in.

"Yeah, I don't know about that, seeing that the other photo you already had to put there is..."

"Your wedding photo. Okay? If you think you're getting your own wall, you're wrong. We don't even have that many pictures of things we've done together." Thank god for that.

"Yeah, but if you put this photo," he enunciates, flourishing the photo of Sungjong in Japan, "then these lovely ladies will overshadow my wife, making her look like an ugly troll, and I'm not sure if I can allow that-"

"She would never look like an ugly troll-"

"You haven't seen her in the morning!"

He grits his teeth at Inguk's pedantic bickering, and he knows the only reason Inguk volunteered to help him unpack anyways is to do this very sort of childish antic. Also probably to psychoanalyze him as he goes through his stuff, often opening boxes without even asking beforehand. Good ol' Inguk.

"Eunji could run circles around any of those women, so put the photo over there."

"But-"

"Put the photo on the wall, Inguk," he monotones, and he swears he hears Inguk sniggering as he walks away. He should have just done this alone.

* * *

When he sits down to lunch, amidst a sea of boxes, he realizes begrudgingly that, despite everything, he does need the help, especially if he's going to get it done within the next three days or so. Inguk idly sifts through a box with one hand, picking out supplies that are meant to go on his desk down the hall, and he plucks out a flower-shaped stone, holding it in his palm.

"I never got why she did a cherry blossom for her wedding favor. The wedding was in December..."

"Because it's where she and Jiwon met. Also, her moms met a cherry blossom festival, so she thought it was fitting."

He flips it over, to read the printed  _Seungah & Jiwon 2015.12.2_, and he puts it back in the box.

"Unh...totally better than the soap we gave out. I told Eunji it was a stupid idea, but noooo, she just had to-"

"I know. I've heard. A million times. You got married like five years ago, are you still going on about the soap?"

"Do you know what they had? We could have done wine glasses! Or coasters! But no, " _everyone uses soap, Inguk_ "! People don't use wine glasses? Did you use the soap?"

"No, it's in the bin in the linen closet, I think."

"See!"

He lets Inguk whine about for a little bit, because he knows there's nothing more he likes to do than whine about his wife Eunji, and he swears it must be how they show affection to each other. The more annoyed at the other they are, the more they seem to love each other, and having three kids in four years definitely shows their isn't a lack of  _something_  going on in that house.

"How is Seungah anyway? She's gotta be ready to pop soon..."

"Any day now. I saw her last Thursday, she looks huge. Not like bad, it's just..."

"Twins, yeah. It's crazy, having two kids to start out. What a mess. I'll heckle Eunji, make her go help her out a little. She'll need it."

"Haeun said she'll help. She's dealt with twins, obviously."

"Wow, so they're friendly? That's good to see. Haeun's a strong woman, to maintain a friendship like that."

"Well, she's gotten a lot better since Seungah met Jiwon. I mean, Seungah still obviously loves Joonmoon very much, but I think Jiwon keeps her busy enough as is. It's good."

Inguk nods in agreement, picking at his rice cakes, and Howon knows he's thinking of something he wants to say, because he just knows Inguk that well now.

"So...you're next?"

He stares blankly at Inguk, eyes narrowed in annoyance, and he shrugs, looking around his apartment to say "to whom should I get married?" and Inguk's good enough at picking up his silent looks to get the picture.

"Three days. You're almost done, man. Almost done."

He shrugs again, not wanting to talk about it. He knew, they both knew, exactly what could happen when Sungjong finally debuted, two years after he originally intended, but somehow the reality is so much harder to deal with. Sometimes, he gets to go with him, especially if he's just going to Japan, or even China, but this time, Sungjong's been on tour, Vietnam one night, Hungary the next, and it's hard to even get him on the phone, with all the time differences. But soon, soon he'll be back, for months this time, and the only responsibility he'll have is his regular spot on a variety show.

Yes, his group won't make a comeback until the end of the year, won't be back in the studios for recording and choreography for at least a good five months, and he'll have Sungjong all to himself, back in their (new) apartment, back in his bed. Back in his life. The idea sounds like pure bliss.

If anything, he kind of likes it and hates it at the same time. The absences make him appreciate when Sungjong is here even more, but sometimes when it stretches out for weeks at a time, it's too much for even him, and he gets impatient. Both of them have schedules that can take them away for 16 to 18 hours a day, but they never coincide, and it's still a struggle sometimes, to keep a cool head.

But Sungjong's happy, and he's happy, and that's what matters the most here.

He and Inguk clean up lunch, returning to the living room to continue unpacking, and they work on getting the TV set up, hooking up the sound system and testing it out. He flips through some channels, leaving it on some generic news station as background noise, and he and Inguk work on moving the bookshelf across the room to the far wall when a story catches his interest.

" _Four staff of Sound Wave Entertainment have been sentenced today following a lengthy four-year battle after it was found they were exploiting young singers for sponsorships..._ "

Both he and Inguk stop and stare, because everyone in the country's heard about this case by now, and it's been dragged out for years. It was all over the papers, back when it broke, and the case was plagued with witness intimidation, already debuted idols unwilling to speak up, and attempts of bribery on the company's part.

"Jung Yohoon has been sentenced to a combined 15 years for exploitation of minors, bribery, perjury, and evidence tampering, though assault charges have been dropped stemming from a 2013 incident..."

"It's incredible he has all these charges and yet he only gets 15 years," Inguk sneers. "Well, I guess it's better than nothing. I'm surprised he didn't manage to use all that money and buy the whole police department off. Amazing how our justice system works, that we managed to pass a whole set of laws making punishing this stricter before he even went to trial."

He doesn't say anything, doesn't have anything to say, so he just nods, the happiness he should be feeling overwhelmed by a lingering disgust at the situation. He should be overjoyed, satisfied with the outcome, but yet it somehow makes him feel worse, that all those kids were dragged through the mud, that the whole country were like vigilantes, trying to figure out who was involved. It's done, in a way, but yet, in another, it will never be over. He just doesn't want to ever think about it again.

* * *

He does send one e-mail, just the news article, to Sungjong just to let him know, and he gets an e-mail back at 3:30 am their time, with just a single "I saw." Normally, that wouldn't mean a lot coming from just anyone, but from Sungjong it means everything. He's come to terms, accepted the outcome and okay with it. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have said anything at all.

Howon's never pushed him to talk about it, not since that day in Gwangju, that first day they were together. When Sungjong had told him, a week later, he wanted to study all year and apply to colleges, he hadn't said anything. It had killed him a little, to see Sungjong let his dream go, but he had seen the relief the decision had brought him, and there was no criticism he could find in himself against that choice. And so he had, dedicating a year to his college entrance exams, and they had moved to Daegu, so Sungjong could study architecture. He had actually made more money in Daegu, because he started freelancing, getting calls from this company and that, but it allowed him more mobility. Everything seemed great. Wonderful. This was exactly what he had always worked for.

That is, minus the look he sometimes saw in Sungjong, when they went out for  _noraebang_ , or when Sungjong helped him learn the newest dance to teach in his class. The look of dedication, when Sungjong would turn their apartment into a stage, dancing in front of the TV like he was performing in front of 10,000 screaming fans. He had wanted to say something, but Sungjong had made his choice, it seemed, and what else was there to say?

The freelancing on his part didn't help the uneasiness he felt. He started traveling back and forth between Seoul and Daegu, being hired out for one-dance routines for some of the companies in the capital who had liked his work with Triumph, and then he started getting calls internationally. The first time he had gone to help a shoot in Japan, it had been during Sungjong's winter break, and he can still remember how bright-eyed he had been when he came along, to see everyone getting their make-up done, to see the cameras and lights and directors. He couldn't shake the feeling, that he should push, but Sungjong never responded well to that, and he knew it'd just make things worse.

So he kept his mouth shut, as Sungjong accompanied him to New York, back to Japan again, watching and breathing in and canoodling with idols. He could see when it changed, when the girls in Japan had oohed and aahed over him in a jumbled mix of Japanese, Korean, and English, pinching his cheeks and saying he was too cute to be an architect. He could see it after the concert in LA, when Sungjong was hyper like never before, nearly bouncing off the walls while explaining all his favorite parts.

It didn't surprise him in the least when he found out that Sungjong had stopped going to classes regularly. It was the only time he ever said something, on the phone while he was in Seoul, and it had been something like "you can't do half of one thing and half of another; you have to choose." Sungjong had brushed him off, mumbling ' _okay_ ' like a scolded little kid, but he had called back at 1 in the morning, unable to sleep, and they had talked about it for hours, about all his fears, if he could really make it, if he had the ability.

He had made a mental note to talk to Jungho about permanent jobs in the city the next day.

* * *

To say it was fortuitous, how everything worked out, would have been an understatement. A massive one.

He'd had been leaving his one year check-in at Inguk's office, the final check-in the agency had required him to make before officially filing his case indefinitely, when he had, quite literally, run into Dongwoo, a guy he had performed against a few times back when he had just gotten into Seoul.

He had done it quite accidentally, texting Sungjong and walking at the same time, when he had run straight into him. It had taken him a second to react, but by then, two sets of hands were pulling and pushing him at the second time.

"Hey!"

"Hoya!"

Dongwoo was pulling him into a bear hug, a trademark of his to anyone he considered a friend (generally speaking, that meant everyone he met and could remember upon subsequent meetings), while someone else, someone he didn't know, was trying to separate the two of them.

He let Dongwoo latch on to him, patting his back innocently to not further incite the ire of the guy who he was apparently with, and Dongwoo had started chattering excitedly, introducing the two of them.

"Hoya, this is my match, Sunggyu. Sunggyu, I used to dance with Hoya sometimes, back in the day. How are you? I haven't seen you in forever! What are you doing? Still dancing, right?"

Dongwoo always asked so many question at once, he never was able to get a word in, so he just nodded a lot, trying to figure out how common a name Sunggyu was. Surely, it couldn't be the same...

"Anyways, do you know any dancers who are interested in debuting? Or anyone really, we're kind of desperate. That's how I met Sunggyu, we're both part of this group, isn't it funny how that worked out, he used to be a vocal trainer but he wanted to break into the scene, anyways, our company's never done idol groups before, we're kind of guinea pigs to be honest, and we need people because no one really knows to audition for us, we actually stole this MC kid from another company, it's a funny story, anyway, so do you think you know anyone..."

His mind had thought a thousand things at once, and it was impossible to keep up with Dongwoo's incoherent babbling. First, he thought, there was no way this guy, the guy who was looking at Dongwoo with a mix of adoration and something akin to wanting to kill him, there was no way this guy was Kim Sunggyu. Dongwoo reached out, hand brushing his arm to get his attention, and this Sunggyu's face had melted into a deep frown, and he knew, he absolutely knew this had to be him.

But more importantly, this was Sungjong's chance. Not that he knew Dongwoo super well, but he'd never stand for a company that actively abused trainees, or idols nonetheless, and this was exactly what Sungjong needed right now. Get away from the big names, get in a group with someone like Dongwoo (a really nice guy, in his opinion, and if he casually forgot to mention Sunggyu's name when he brought up the idea to Sungjong later, well...), get in with something new, and fresh, and off the beaten path.

"Yeah, uhm, I think I might know someone, actually. You still have my number right?"

Dongwoo and Sunggyu had been bickering amongst themselves in his scatterbrained moment, and Dongwoo had looked over at him, nodding while trying to unfist Sunggyu's hands from his shirt.

"Wha- uh, yeah, think so. I'll text the info later- ouch, Sunggyu, yes, we can go- sorry, anyways, I'll call you or something after we get this registering thing figured out."

He had turned to leave when he had heard that, and it had stopped him, making him turn back around.

"You know that this isn't where you register, right? This is just the district office for the agency. The official office of the heads of the department. You have to go downtown, where they do IDs and stuff..."

He had left Dongwoo and his match there, Sunggyu threatening to strangle him right in the middle of the office building while Dongwoo had tried to explain he must have just gotten confused, and he couldn't help but smile to himself as he walked out into the sunshine. God, how he wanted Sungjong to end up in a group like that. The variety shows alone would be priceless.

* * *

It takes a better part of two days, this time without Inguk's help, to get all the little things into place. It's his least favorite part of moving; trying to arrange everything, finding stuff in the bathroom box that belongs on his desk, moving and removing furniture until it finally looks right. Neither he nor Sungjong are the most organized of people (despite Sungjong's love of architecture and design), and he sticks post-it notes labeling each drawer around the house so Sungjong has an easier time when he gets back. He'll probably be too lazy (unconcerned as he says, in his own words) to have an opinion about switching which cabinet the glasses should go in, or anything like that.

He really does hate moving, but Sungjong had been so proud, to finally have enough money to buy them a flat overlooking the river, and he had followed him along as he had walked through apartment tour after apartment tour, critiquing paneling details and ceiling heights. He personally didn't care overly much, but Sungjong had to get good use out of that year of architecture school, and he had been more than happy to agree to Sungjong's final choice, some art deco inspired monstrosity Sungjong had nearly come in his pants over. He had tried, valiantly, to split the bill of the apartment with Sungjong, but Sungjong had signed the papers before he even knew what was going on, giving him some bullcrap about how he had supported him during his quarter-life crisis, and that this was him paying him back.

He knows he's still young, but he can't help but feel old looking around the place. All the remnants of their past, the IKEA sofa they'd bought for their first new place together long gone, the plastic cups exchanged for a glass set with gold leaves, all of those are tucked away, and their apartment looks like home. Not just home, but the home of two people who know what they're doing, know where they're going. He doesn't put posters in cheap frames on the wall anymore; now it's pictures of friends, weddings, newborn babies and family reunions and the occasional blow-up of Sungjong, on stage. Even his look has gone from cutesy bubblegum to something a bit more mature, dark suits and close-shorn hair and crooning love songs in a minor chord.

He doesn't remember when it all settled down, but he can look back, and see how all the dots connected. How he went from a kid, dancing in the park on Sundays, to some assistant, b-boying in a back studio room at one am, to what he is now, a lover, a director, a man. Complete and whole. It's weird to him sometimes, to think of how everything just seemingly worked out, how him leaving home on such a sour note inspired him to work harder, how stepping off a curb into traffic ended up being one of the greatest things he'd ever done, how taking a year away from Seoul, only to come back and run into some guy he thought he'd never see again has afforded him this (at least, by proxy). And it scares him, that maybe if he had looked away a little longer, had hesitated to tie his shoes before stepping on to an elevator, or given into social convention, or not have been a total idiot, if he hadn't done a single one of those things, he wouldn't be here at all. But that's exactly how life works, he guesses, and he did stop and stare, or jump into something half-brained idea way too quickly, all because that's exactly what was supposed to happen.

He tries not to overthink it, though it's hard not to when he sees the scars every day. That life is done, and that Lee Howon died. Not when he got hit by the truck; that started the process, cut the first vein that had slowly bled out. It had taken a long time to cleanse the blood, to rid himself of the anger and fury and disappointment at the world, at other people, but he had done it, and when he looks at Sungjong, even he, the stoic warrior of all matters of the heart, could cry.

Because it's all thanks to him. He was born with a purpose in this world, above being a teacher, above being a son. He was born to love Lee Sungjong, and god, does he try everyday.

* * *

It's nearly one when he gets to bed, but he, very much unlike himself, doesn't fall asleep easily. He has a set schedule, waking up at 7 every morning to get to the studio he took over from Jungho by 8:30 sharp, and he usually likes to be in bed by midnight at the latest, but he had idled around, knowing sleep was elusive tonight. He feels like a little kid, like Christmas is in the morning, though Sungjong won't be back til later tomorrow night as is. It's been so long, and his fingers ache desperately, deprived of the feel of Sungjong's lips underneath the tips of his fingers, of the rounds of his shoulders in the cup of palm. Just a few more hours, until they're back together again, no more awkward Skype sex, no more whispered goodnights to no one but an empty apartment. Just them.

He dozes in a restless sleep, feeling like he's just blinked when 30 minutes have passed according to the clock on the nightstand, and he turns over with a huff, muting the background music he had left playing on his iPad. He could get up, have a drink, maybe jack off and hope that wears him out, but he's too lethargic for even that, and he stares at the ceiling in the black, trying to meditate himself into slumber.

He must have fallen asleep, because he doesn't hear the front door alarm beep once, nor the door to their room glide open over the carpet, but the moment he senses him close, before he reaches out but still within arms reach, he's wide awake, like he never even laid down at all.

He could say something, either of them could, something like 'hi there' or 'I missed you' or 'what are you doing back already?', but the moment Sungjong reaches out in the dark, hands brushing against his face, he pulls him down, lips as much of a welcome back greeting as he's going to get. He's ravenous, partially due to the absence, partially due to some hazy dream he was just having before Sungjong had come in, and Sungjong has no protest, leaning up into him with incautious abandon.

Every time he's gone this long, Howon always feels like he's starting back on page one, even though he knows the ending. They both do. Even though he knows Sungjong likes to be bitten, right on his collar bone, even though he knows Sungjong loves to have his ass grabbed, enough to leave bruises, he still does it questioningly, his lips and fingers searching out gently, asking 'is this okay?' before digging in. Sungjong's hands still skim butterfly-esque strokes down the line of his scar, as if he's worried of invading a private, personal part of Howon's being, and he groans when Sungjong mouths down the line, repairing the wound with gentle kisses.

It's been weeks since they were together, and Howon has to slow himself down. Sungjong's tight, even though he knows he's fingered himself, has seen him do it on webcam (just for him), and he teases him forever, one finger curling up into him and then two, but only when he grabs Howon by the hair and growls out a command. Sungjong's always been a little impatient, twisting out in the dark to reach the nightstand, to where they usually keep the lube, but this place is new, and his hand grasps air where he's used to the drawer being.

"I got it," he says, half-laughing, but Sungjong's whining under him, calling his name like he only does when he's beyond teasing, when he needs him the very most, and he scrabbles around, reaching to the other side of the bed in a hurry. He desperately, eagerly wants to savor this, but the clock says 3:30, and they've still got a lot of time before dawn comes; this is to satiate, to complete, not to play, or discover, and he wrenches Sungjong's thighs apart probably a little more roughly than he should, but Sungjong moans, enjoying the rough handling, and he leans over him, hands around his ass to angle him up.

He chokes on how good it feels, the pain of Sungjong's nails digging into his hips barely registering in his mind, and he has to stop, because he could come right there, just like that. The feeling is overwhelming, not only because it's been so long, not only because it's basic human instinct, to have all the chemicals and neurons and biology working in a symphony to create such an amazing feeling. It's overwhelming because that's how it always is with Sungjong, even when it's every day, multiple times a day, years and years later, when it should be routine and ordinary. It still feels just as electric as the first time he held the letter in his hand. It feels right, a deep sense of right he believes can only be found when they're together, mentally and emotionally and physically.

Sungjong seems to feel it too, relenting from his usual brash commands to smooth his hands down his abdomen, making the muscles jump, and then he pulls him down, so they're nose to nose, breathing in the same air.

"I love you."

It feels better than sex, better than Sungjong's warm skin pressed against him, and he swoons, him, bravado and all, swoons under the spell Sungjong's cast on him. Despite appearances, despite the impressions everyone assumes about them, he's always felt he's needed Sungjong just a little more than Sungjong needed him, and Sungjong has such a power over him, he doesn't even attempt to stop it. He lets Sungjong pull him on down, their lips sliding against each other with wet, sloppy kisses, and Sungjong presses his knees in, squeezing his ribs, urging him to move.

All the hungry rush has faded away, and he pulls back slowly, pulling back almost to the point of pulling out entirely before inching back in, letting Sungjong's body adjust around him. It's worse for him this way, because he can feel everything so slowly, so consumingly, that it drives him that much closer, and he has to stop, mumbling out some half-assed apology with his head tucked into the crook of Sungjong's neck.

Sungjong pushes him back, until he's sitting up cross-legged on the bed, and he climbs on top, on to his lap. They've done this before (tried everything, at least once), but he doesn't understand the goal until Sungjong yanks his hair back to make him look up.

"You weren't thinking this was close to being done, were you?"

He knows the pain's supposed to distract him, and it kind of does, but it also thrills him, and he feels himself jerk inside Sungjong, knows Sungjong feels it too.

"Don't you dare." The threat is deadly, a warning that promises he'll regret it if he doesn't listen, and Sungjong presses up against him, until his dick is pressed tightly between their bodies. "I want to come like this. Got it?"

He knows why, knows that means he'll have to half-concentrate on keeping their bodies like this, and his hands slide around to grab Sungjong's ass, lifting him experimentally, until Sungjong mewls in pleasure.

It does take half his mind away from the overwhelming heat around his dick, and instead he concentrates on Sungjong's own pleasure, moving this way and that until he gets them into a rhythm that has Sungjong tossing his head back and crying out. It drives him mad, feeling Sungjong's cock ooze hot pre-cum against their bodies, feeling Sungjong squeeze around him when he hits just the right spot, and he doesn't even warn him when he comes, hands digging into Sungjong's hips as he slides him down again and again, riding it out.

It's a bit agonizing, because Sungjong isn't very far behind him, and he stays moving, long after the head of his cock goes so sensitive his teeth clench in near pain, but he pulls Sungjong down with him, bodies pressed so tight together around him, and Sungjong collapses, hanging over him like a limp blanket. He doesn't know how he still has the strength, but he holds him anyways, stroking a hand down his back soothingly, whispering in his ear.

"Welcome home."

* * *

And so life returns to normal. Sungjong buys some more pointless shit for their apartment, leaving on the kitchen table for him to put up. Seungah has her twins, Sungjong eyes them greedily, but they both give each other that look, the look that says 'maybe in about five years.' Inguk still annoys the shit out of him, but that's Inguk through and through. Life is beautiful.

He's at home one Sunday, Sungjong off on some late afternoon photo shoot, when he hears a familiar voice on the TV he left on in the living room. It's so strange to him, to hear Sungjong's voice through the speakers, see his face blown up on national television, the make-up and hair styling and clothes so different from the Sungjong he knows, but he sits down and watches it anyways. Sungjong isn't that different on TV, his usual reserved self interspersed with hints of weirdness and the occasional moment when he stares blankly at Sunggyu, or his other bandmate Sungyeol, like he's plotting their demises, but he likes to watch and scoff at the TV when he says something that's obviously a lie, and then make fun of him for it later.

The program is one of those open discussion ones, where everyone gets questioned on their experiences pertaining to a certain topic of the week, and this week is gratitude. He already anticipates a thousand people Sungjong will say, mostly his parents, Jungho too, Sunggyu (the fact that Sunggyu had been his vocal coach was a hot topic among netizens, and he knows Sungjong grits his teeth every time he has to publicly thank his hyung for all his assistance, even if the guy really has gone above and beyond in the last few years to take care of him) and Dongwoo and probably Sungyeol as well, his teachers in high school, all those sorts of people.

But that's not who Sungjong says.

"Honestly," he says, looking at the host, "a few years ago I had a dream that I gave up on. I'm a very stubborn person, and I don't like to be told what to do when I make up my mind. So, there was this person in my life, when everyone else wanted to call me and urge me to reconsider, they said 'walk where you will, and I'll follow your steps'. This person gave up so much for me, in fact, they were living their dream and left it to help me find out what I wanted to do. The next year, I ended up returning to that dream, and they never complained, never once got mad at me for dragging them around and constantly changing my mind. I have a lot of gratitude to my parents, my teachers, my hyungs, but there's nothing I feel more thankful for than having a person in my life who would respect me enough to let me make my own mistakes and learn from them. I'm most grateful to my match, Lee Howon, for moving heaven and earth just for me."

He knows that Sungjong means a lot more than just that year with that last statement, and he doesn't even realize he's crying until the tear splashes on the hand in his lap. Sungjong's never been one for overt displays of affection, particularly in public, and while the fans know he has a match, he's pretty sure he's never said anything like this before, and he lets himself cry, not even ashamed. He had never expected a thank you, always trying to treat Sungjong in a good way, but to hear it like that, it means the world to him.

The program turns into the evening news, and he takes a deep breath, reaching for his phone to text some lovey-dovey mush that's so unlike himself to Sungjong in response when the breaking headline catches his attention, and he freezes.

" _There is a breaking news report out of Lisbon tonight that a young woman has reached the age of 23 without receiving a letter. Sources say the government is trying to maintain the case, but that a local representative for the Department of Children and Families had informed the local newspaper of the story..._ "

His stomach lurches, dredging up memories from years ago, and he tries to remain calm, breathing deep and heavy against the fear.

The phone in his hand rings, jolting him back into awareness, and he knows without looking down exactly who it's going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! I really hope I managed to end it well and not like totally turn the ending into poo...


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